


Vigilantes Shouldn't Wear So Much Leather

by Lyrial



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Identity Porn, M/M, Police Officer Castiel, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:29:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrial/pseuds/Lyrial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean lives a secret double life as the vigilante crime-fighter, Hunter. Castiel is the detective leading the task force dedicated to catching him.</p>
<p>Also, they're dating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Castiel's Terrible Day

**Author's Note:**

> Self-indulgent identity porn fic, because I have incredibly poor impulse control, darn it.

Castiel was having a terrible day. To be more specific, he was having the most terrible day in the history of terrible days. And given that Castiel was a major crimes detective in one of the busiest police departments in Metro City, that was really saying something.

The fact of it was— Castiel had a problem.

Other people had problems too, of course. They had problems with over-demanding bosses, traffic jams, shit coffee, and overflowing in-trays. However, unlike Castiel, not everyone had a problem that wore a hood and a mask and went swinging around the city at night, punching out criminals.

Castiel’s particular problem went by the name of Hunter. Hunter had a penchant for dealing out vigilante justice, wearing way too much black leather, and being a major pain in the ass for poor, overworked police detectives like say, one Castiel Milton.

Castiel had nothing against comic book vigilantes, not by far. He even enjoyed a Batman comic or two sometimes in his (admittedly scarce) free time. But comic book heroes were just that- comic book heroes. They had no business being in reality.

In reality, there were these things called laws. The justice system existed for a reason, as did police officers like Castiel. Due process had to be followed, safeguards taken. The wheels of justice turned slowly, and there was no denying that sometimes real criminals escaped, but that didn’t give anyone a license to go out there and start dishing out their own version of justice. The law was the law, and no one should be above it, no matter how good their intentions.

So yeah, Castiel wasn’t exactly Hunter’s greatest fan. It also didn’t help that Castiel’s superiors all expected results from him ASAP, and they were constantly haranguing him about it.

Even the mayor had taken a personal interest in this case. Castiel had been invited to a few lunches with her, in which she had told him to call her ‘Naomi’ in a very polite but nevertheless terrifyingly chilling way, and Castiel had been helpless to do anything but comply. Those lunches had been awkward, stilted affairs that mostly consisted of Castiel picking listlessly at his food as Naomi smiled at him and asked, very politely and very pointedly, when they could expect to see the vigilante behind bars at last.

It wasn’t that Castiel wasn’t _trying_.

Not to blow his own trumpet, but Castiel had a track record that was frankly _astonishing_. He wasn’t called the rising star of the MCPD for nothing. It had been that fame that landed him with the dubious honor of being assigned as lead detective of the task force dedicated to catching the vigilante. In the long history of his career as a detective, Castiel had never had a single failure in cracking a case, and he was determined that this would not be the first. He had a reputation to uphold.

Yet, a full three months into the job and Castiel had nothing to show for his progress except for a few glimpses of the vigilante’s absurdly fine leather-clad ass as it rapidly ascended into the night sky, a more than slightly bruised ego, and a cork board full of newspaper articles, red string, and grainy photos of the vigilante’s back view that his partner, Sam, liked to jokingly refer to as his ‘Vigilante Ass Wall-Shrine’.

(Sam also liked to say that Castiel had an ‘unhealthy obsession’ with Hunter. It was, of course, complete and utter nonsense.)

Castiel was staring at his evidence board with narrowed eyes, face scrunched up in intense concentration, when he heard the knock on his door.

Castiel turned around, mouth already open to snap at the unfortunate fool who had dared to come bother him, because damn it, he was _busy_. But the scowl immediately dropped off his face when he saw who it was.

“Oh,” he said, “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas, how’s my favorite workaholic?” Dean grinned at him with that mix of exasperated fondness that he always reserved for Castiel, and before Castiel knew it, a small smile had somehow snuck its way onto his lips.

Suddenly, his terrible day had just become a lot less terrible.

Dean casually popped himself onto Castiel’s desk, where he sat, legs swinging— an action that would have been a death sentence for anyone else, but which Castiel found strangely endearing when it came to Dean. “Sam says you haven’t moved for hours. Just been standing here staring at the ass shrine all day.”

Castiel shot Dean a half-hearted glare. “Don’t call it an— It’s an evidence board.” He let out a small huff of annoyance. “What is it with you Winchesters and ridiculous nicknames?”

Dean beamed at him sunnily. “Shut up. You love it, _Cas_ , and you know it.”

Castiel grinned crookedly back at him. “So what brings you here? Shouldn’t you be at the garage now?”

“Bobby let me off my shift an hour early. He’s awesome like that. Thought I’d pop by, check on Metro City’s Finest. My favorite detective’s been working so hard to keep this city safe from nasty vigilantes, I was afraid he was gonna forget to eat and starve to death. So I brought him some lunch.”

Grinning, Dean held up a paper bag, and the heavenly aroma of grease and saturated fats hit Castiel’s nose like a shot of concentrated bliss.

“Double Cheese Sliders Combo Meal, special delivery from White Castle to the sexiest policeman in MCPD.” Dean’s grin was possibly even cheesier than the burgers he’d brought Castiel, but Castiel loved it to bits.

“Aww, that’s so sweet of you, Dean,” Castiel said, smiling fondly at Dean as he reached out to take the bag. “You’re the best boyfriend ever.”

Smirking, Dean held the bag out of reach from Castiel. “Ah ah ah,” he tutted as he waved a finger at Castiel. He grinned at Castiel’s cheated expression, green eyes bright with mischief. “What? You thought these are for you? They’re for Sam, you giant doof.”

Castiel, the most infamously stone-cold detective on the Metro City police force, gave Dean a pout that would have sent his colleagues into cardiac arrest had any of them been around to witness it. He batted at Dean until, laughing, Dean finally handed the bag over.

Grinning, Castiel tucked into his favorite burgers and closed one eye when Dean stole a few of his fries.

As Castiel ate, Dean strolled around idly, popping fries in his mouth. Eventually, he came to a stop in front of Castiel’s evidence board. His gaze lingered briefly upon the newspaper articles before he leaned forward to examine the board more closely.

When Dean let out a low, impressed wolf-whistle, Castiel immediately knew exactly what it was that had caught Dean’s attention. It was one of the clearer shots they had managed to get of the vigilante before he disappeared off into the night.

It wasn’t particularly useful as a resource for deducing the vigilante’s identity. However, should anyone be so inclined, it provided a very detailed and illuminating resource on the specifics of how black leather could finely accentuate what looked to be an already extremely well-defined ass.

Not that Castiel had ever been inclined to examine that piece of evidence in that way. At all.

“Should I be getting worried about this?” Dean said as he turned around to look at Castiel, one eyebrow raised impishly. “All that black leather. _Dammmnn_. It sure doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does it?”

He winked.

Castiel flushed, making Dean chuckle. “Relax, Cas. I’m not jealous.” He flashed Castiel a sly, teasing grin. “Though, I must admit, I’m half-tempted to hunt down this Hunter fellow myself for keeping my boyfriend away from me.”

Dean’s grin made it obvious he was just making a joke. But still, Castiel was hit with a pang of sudden guilt that he had been neglecting Dean lately. What with the late night stake-outs and the number of hours he spent in the office scouring for leads and filling in paperwork, he hardly had time to see his boyfriend. No wonder Dean had decided to visit Castiel at the police station. It was probably the only place Castiel spent much time in these days.

Castiel opened his mouth to apologize, but Dean fended him off with one nonchalantly waved hand. “No, no, it’s okay, Cas. I was just kidding. I know you’re under a lot of pressure to catch this guy.”

He reached out to nab another one of Castiel’s fries with a cheeky grin, and Castiel felt his frown melting away in the face of Dean’s brilliant smile. He never could stay unhappy for long when Dean was around.

“So how’s the search going?” Dean asked before popping the fry into his mouth and chewing. “Any new leads?”

Castiel couldn’t help but let out a little sigh. “Nothing, as usual. It’s been three months and still… nothing.”

Castiel stared glumly down at his half-eaten cheese slider, but Dean, as always, did not allow Castiel to mope around in sullen misery.

“Chin up, Cas,” he said, “You’ll catch this masked freak sooner or later.” He flashed Castiel a brilliant grin. “After all, you’re the best damn detective in the whole county. If anyone can catch this guy, it’s _you_.”

Nudging Castiel, he asked, a sly look in his eyes, “Anyway. Still want that burger?”

Castiel’s lips lifted into an answering grin. “Get your own, you pig,” he said before taking a huge bite of the burger, humming contentedly as he chewed.

“You’re the pig.” Smirking, Dean reached out to wipe at Castiel’s chin, where the burger sauce had smeared all over his skin. “You eat like a toddler when it comes to burgers. Seriously. Look at this. You’re like a baby in a trench coat.”

Castiel grinned and took another big bite of his burger just to spite Dean, getting the sauce everywhere. “Oops. I think I need someone to help me clean that off,” he told Dean, tone coy.

Dean laughed. His grin was mischievous as he leaned over to lick the sauce off Castiel’s mouth before kissing him. Castiel was so glad he had his own private office.

He was even gladder for his private office a moment later when Dean walked over and tugged the blinds closed before sinking to his knees, a devious smirk on his face. “I’ll make this a quick one,” he promised with a wink, “Don’t wanna waste too much of your valuable, taxpayer-funded time.”

As Dean had promised, it was over rather embarrassingly quick. All too soon, Castiel was slumped, sated and jelly-limbed, in his chair. Dean stole a napkin from the burger bag to dab at his mouth faux-delicately, smirking pointedly all the while, before tossing it into Castiel’s wastepaper bin.

“Gotta go now, Cas,” he announced. He chuckled at Castiel’s badly concealed dismay and his ensuing earnest attempt at puppy dog eyes. “Much as I’d love to stay, you’ve got a vigilante to catch.”

A wink and a quick kiss and then he was gone. Castiel sighed wistfully. Hunter was about the last thing on his mind right now.

When his phone rang, barely five minutes after Dean left, Castiel was half hoping it was Dean. Castiel had a rather foggy notion that there was such a thing as a ‘booty call’. He had a vague inkling that it had something to do with sexy times. Was that it? Maybe this was a booty call from Dean. Smiling to himself, he picked up.

However, he jolted up in his chair, ramrod straight when he realized it was the police chief on the line.

“Castiel,” Zachariah said, “Get your team ready. We’ve got a tip-off for tonight. It’s Hunter.”

 

So much for that booty call.


	2. Hunter

Dean was in the middle of changing into his Hunter outfit when he got the call from Sam. He had been having a slight problem getting into the pants. Frankly, they were a little on the tight side.

Dean had his suspicions about that, especially since the person who designed and stitched together the whole costume had been a certain Jo Harvelle. During his first fitting, the appreciative whistle and almost predatory gleam in Jo’s eyes as she surveyed the leather extravaganza that was his outfit had been rather telling. The whole effect of his costume seemed calculated not so much to strike terror into the hearts of criminals but rather more to please the eye. Dean wasn’t sure how to feel about that, but the Kevlar Jo had worked into the outfit did its job well enough, so he had let it slide.

As Dean gamely struggled to wriggle into those damnably tight leather pants, he tapped his earpiece. Sam’s voice came through, and from the tone of it, his bitchface was on full-force. “Dean, please tell me you’re not still going out tonight.”

Dean paused in attempting to squirm his way into the pants. “Would it make you feel better if I said I wasn’t?”

An inarticulate noise of frustration came over the line. With one final shimmy, Dean finally managed to squeeze into his pants.

“Use your words, Sammy,” he suggested helpfully.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam growled warningly. “Did I or did I not specifically warn you to stay away from the docks tonight? It’s going to be crawling with cops. Cops from the anti-vigilante task force. Cops who, need I remind you, have orders to _shoot you on sight_.”

Sam took a deep breath. His frustration was practically audible. “Just stay at home for one night. One night, that’s all I’m asking. Put a movie on, eat some ice cream. Take a break. Let someone else take care of this. Like, I don’t know— me and Cas? The people whose _actual job_ it is to go after criminals?”

Sam was sounding extra pissy tonight; he must be really worried.

“Strange. I’m a criminal and yet here you are, talking to me.” Dean smirked, although he knew Sam wasn’t around to see it. He could practically hear Sam’s teeth grinding. He pulled on his gloves. Throwing daggers. Where were his throwing daggers?

“This isn’t a _joke_ , Dean,” Sam snapped, “The only reason why your ass isn’t in jail right now is because of me.”

Aha, there they were. Dean grabbed the daggers and strapped them into place on his utility belt.

“And Charlie,” he reminded Sam, “Don’t forget Charlie. She’s not gonna be happy about you taking all the credit for keeping my pretty ass in one piece and safely out of prison.”

Sam sighed loudly. “Nothing I say is gonna stop you from heading out tonight, is it?”

“Nope,” Dean agreed.

“I just hope you know what you’re doing, Dean.”

“That’s what you’ve been saying since the day I first put on a mask—”

“It wasn’t a mask, it was a ski hat with holes cut into it. You looked like an idiot running around wearing a sock on your head.”

Dean graciously ignored that incredibly catty remark. “—and I’m still alive and a free man right now, aren’t I?”

Sam sighed again. There were mountains of long-suffering exasperation in that sigh. “Yeah, let’s hope that stays the same after tonight.” His voice softened. “Just … try not to get shot at by your boyfriend, alright?”

“Concern duly noted, Gigantor. See ya at the docks.” Dean cut the line before Sam could start his usual whining about being called Gigantor. It was his code name, he’d been outvoted two to one, and he would damn well like it.

 

\---

 

Castiel looked up from the information file on Hunter that he was reading when the car door opened, letting in the cold air, but also the blessed scent of freshly brewed caffeine. Sam slid into the seat next to him, bearing two cups of coffee.

Wordlessly, Sam handed over one cup to Castiel.

“Thanks,” Castiel said and he gave his partner a grateful nod. Sam nodded and smiled back, but there was something slightly strained about it. He took a big gulp of his coffee, draining it pretty much in one shot.

Castiel knew from experience that Sam didn’t usually do that unless he was a) very tired or b) very pissed. From the way Sam’s brows kept trying to twitch into a frown, it didn’t take much detective training to come to the conclusion that it was probably the latter.

“Is something the matter, Sam?” Castiel asked tentatively, “You seem… troubled.”

“It’s nothing,” Sam said, before sighing. “Just Dean being an idiot as usual. He can be such a stubborn ass, sometimes.” He shot Castiel a lopsided, commiserating grin. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Castiel offered, but Sam waved him off with one hand. “No, it’s okay.”

Castiel opened his mouth to tell Sam that really, he didn’t mind, but Sam smiled and said, “Seriously, it’s okay. Thanks, Cas, I appreciate it, but we all know that Dean does what he wants.” In an extremely blatant attempt to change the topic, he continued, “Anyway, you’ve got more important things on your plate. Like Hunter. Think we’ll finally be able to nab him this time?”

Castiel knew Sam wasn’t exactly terribly thrilled about being on the anti-vigilante task force. Sam had never expressed any outright disapproval, but he hadn’t engaged in the work with the same kind of passion that he did for cases he truly cared about. Castiel sometimes suspected that the only reason why Sam had agreed so readily to join the team when Castiel asked was because it was Castiel who had done the asking.

The two of them had always been close friends. They had, after all, been partners since the day they both entered the force, rookies with no idea which way was up. Secretly, Castiel considered Sam to be more of a brother to him than some of his actual siblings. Not to mention, it had been because of Sam that Castiel first met Dean. That was enough to earn Sam brownie points for life, frankly.

“I think there’s a good chance,” Castiel replied, “The tip-off we got seems solid. If there really is a drug deal going down, and it’s that mob boss Hunter’s been chasing…then there’s no question he’ll show up.”

Sam nodded, staring somewhat listlessly down at his empty coffee cup. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, and there was about as much life in his tone as in a week-old corpse.

Castiel tilted his head to one side. Consideringly, he said, “Actually, I just realized… I’ve never actually ever asked you what your personal opinion about the vigilante is—”

Sam’s eyes shot to his. A brief flicker of something that looked almost like panic crossed his face, but in the next moment, the radio crackled to life and Castiel forgot all about Sam’s strange behavior.

Hunter had been sighted.

\---

 

Crowley was a businessman, honest and simple.

Okay, he was also a criminal, but he was still a businessman, first and foremost. He ran a tight operation, always kept his end of the bargain, honored his deals. So maybe his deals weren’t always _entirely_ legal, but well, supply and demand. People wanted things done, Crowley got it done.

There really was no need to bandy around ugly words like ‘mob boss’ or ‘gangster’. Crowley was a very civilized man. In any case, nothing the police had on him would stick, not for long anyway. Crowley was a hundred and ten percent sure of that. That was what lawyers were for, after all.

However, good, hardworking businessmen like Crowley weren’t always treated as nicely as they should be. Case in point: Hunter.

“You know,” Crowley said conversationally, “I always thought that someone must be really whacked out to get their jollies from prancing around in a mask and some…” He waved an arm carelessly, “black leather BDSM getup. Looks like I was right. You’re a real nutjob, Hunter, let me tell you that. A whole bag full of nuts.” He shot Hunter a snide grin. “You know what? Maybe I should start calling you squirrel.”

Hunter glared at him. That black domino mask he wore did a surprisingly good job concealing his features, as did the hood he had on, but the withering glare on his face was still more than obvious.

“Very funny, Crowley,” the vigilante growled. “Now answer the question before I break something. For example, your legs.”

“You’re breaking my _heart_ , Squirrel. Here I thought we had something beautiful. A bromance of sorts. The hunter and the hunted. There’s something there, I can see it in your eyes.”

Hunter growled dangerously and slammed a hand into Crowley’s chest, making Crowley grunt in pain and squirm uncomfortably.

“Okay, okay, simmer down. Let’s have a nice polite conversation like proper, civilized people, shall we?”

The pressure on Crowley’s chest eased off, and Crowley took a deep breath to recover before plastering a pleasant smile on his face. “I may be a criminal, Squirrel, but I am at heart a businessman. Before we start, let’s talk a bit about… price.”

“ _Price_ ,” Hunter repeated dryly, a dangerous edge to his voice which Crowley staunchly ignored.

“The way I see it, I do a little something for people, I deserve a little something for myself. You know what I mean. You rub my back, I rub yours. It’ll be the start of a beautiful partnership. The epic ballad of Crowley and Squirrel, partners in crime. What do you say?”

The only answer Crowley got to this very generous offer was the clicking of the safety on Hunter’s pistol as he leveled it as Crowley’s poor, defenseless kneecaps.

“Let’s not do anything hasty now!” Crowley said quickly, “Tell you what, I’ll give you a freebie. Information on Abaddon.” Crowley knew he had said the right thing when Hunter’s eyes lit up with an anticipatory gleam. He smiled. “You’ve been poking around after her for months now, haven’t you? I tell you what I know, and we go our separate ways. There. Everyone’s happy.”

Hunter lowered the gun. “Start talking. Now.”

Crowley wasn’t proud of it, but he sung like a bird. Part of being a necessary evil to people like Hunter was ensuring that he continued being, well… necessary.

After he finished talking, he nodded meaningfully at the zip-ties Hunter had trussed him up with. “Care to release me now?”

Hunter holstered his gun and shot Crowley a bright, careless grin. “I don’t think so. Say hello to the cops for me, will ya?”

“We had a deal!” Crowley protested, furious.

Hunter smiled at him coldly. “There is no deal. There is no ‘we’. In fact, there is only ‘ _you’_. And the inside of a prison cell. Goodbye, Crowley. Be thankful your kneecaps are still intact.” With one last smirk, the bloody bastard scarpered, leaving Crowley to his fate.

Crowley should have known better. This was what he got for trusting a man who spent his nights cavorting around on rooftops wearing a mask and a truly staggering amount of (awfully tight) black leather.

 

\---

 

Castiel entered the warehouse at a run, Sam trailing behind him. Outside, sirens were blaring. Inside, however, there was no sign of Hunter. There were only the pained groans of criminals lying strewn around the ground, some of them still twitching slightly from what looked like the rather liberal usage of a taser.

Castiel immediately zoomed in on the familiar form of Crowley, infamous mob boss and budding drug lord. He was tied to a metal column, looking extremely unhappy. It looked like Hunter had left them a little farewell present. However happy Castiel was to see the elusive Crowley finally falling into their hands, all nicely gift-wrapped and ready for justice, he had more pressing concerns.

“Where’s Hunter?” he demanded from the tied up criminal.

The disgruntled mob boss was only too happy to answer. “Buggered off that way,” he indicated with a jerk of his head. In a low mutter, he added, “I hope you catch that maniac. Bloody backstabbing bastard.”

Castiel nodded his thanks and would have given chase immediately but for Sam’s sudden vice-like grip on his arm.

“Wait!” Sam said, “Cas! Stop! What about Crowley?”

Castiel shook off Sam’s grip. “You take care of him.” Sam looked like he was going to object, but Castiel didn’t give him a chance. “That’s an order, Sam. I’m going after the vigilante.”

Ignoring Sam’s protests, Castiel took off at a dead run. He rounded the corner just in time to see a flash of black leather as the vigilante leapt up and swung himself over a wire fence in one enviably graceful move.

With an internal groan, Castiel followed suit, hauling himself up in a much less graceful manner before dropping to the ground heavily. He was too old for all this parkour nonsense. He was a detective, damn it. He was supposed to be spending his days in an office, battling paperwork, the most threatening injury he could face being a paper cut. And yet here he was chasing after a dangerous masked felon and leaping fences.

Thank god Dean had always insisted they do yoga. He always said he liked it because it kept him nice and limber. Castiel liked it for other reasons (mostly to do with the bedroom benefits of Dean’s flexibility), but right now, he was glad for the athletic boost from those yoga exercises.

Another two fences, one harrowing leap down a flight of stairs and an extra burst of speed that left him with a hitch in his breath and the promise of incredible pain the next morning, and Castiel finally had the vigilante in his sights.

“Freeze!” Castiel shouted. The clicking of his gun’s safety was loud in the dead silence of the night. “You make one move and I shoot. Hands up in the air!”

Slowly and stiffly, Hunter raised his hands and turned to face Castiel. In the deep shadows of the alleyway, Castiel couldn’t really make out anything other than the fact that he was wearing a mask under the hood. He was taller than Castiel, but not by much. Other than the fact that he was wearing a mask and an extremely form fitting leather outfit, he looked pretty… normal. Not exactly the dangerous, crazed serial killer that Castiel had been expecting.

However, appearances could be deceiving. Keeping his gun aimed steadily at the vigilante, Castiel moved closer, one hand going to the handcuffs he kept in his trench coat pocket.

“You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do may be used against you in a court of law—”

The next thing Castiel knew, there was a clatter of metal and the gun went flying from his hand. The vigilante leapt at him, tackling him bodily to the ground before Castiel could even respond.

Castiel hit the ground hard with a grunt, all the air going out of him. He struggled valiantly to buck Hunter off him, but the vigilante had both legs wrapped firmly around Castiel’s torso and he was leaning heavily on Castiel’s back, pinning him to the ground.

“Stop struggling,” the vigilante hissed in a low growl. “I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice was extremely deep, like he had been gargling gravel for weeks, way too deep to be natural. He had to be trying to disguise his voice. A voice modulator, perhaps?

There was a jingle of metal as Hunter picked up Castiel’s handcuffs from where they had fallen during the struggle. Castiel was then forced to undergo what was undoubtedly the most humiliating moment in his career as a policeman as he was unceremoniously cuffed with his very own handcuffs.

Subdued and handcuffed after having his gun knocked out of his hand by a throwing dagger. Castiel was never going to live this down. He really should have brought Sam along with him as backup and left Crowley there to rot. Even if the scheming bastard had managed to escape, it couldn’t be much worse than being pinned to the ground by the vigilante’s surprisingly firm thighs after being disarmed so embarrassingly easily.

Hunter was strangely quiet. He wasn't even bothering to gloat. Castiel felt a spike of anger at the criminal. For some reason, he was irrationally furious that Hunter was being so civil.

“You won’t get away with this,” Castiel spat. He wished he could turn himself around, or at least lift his head up. Then he wouldn’t have to glare viciously at the ground, instead of at Hunter’s face like he really wanted to.

“You’ve killed people. You’re a murderer. Maybe they were bad people, but you killed them. What does that make you?”

Still, nothing but silence.

“You’re no better than the criminals you hunt, _Hunter_. And one day, you’re going to face justice. You’re going to get what you deserve.”

There was a soft sigh, almost too quiet to be heard. In a strangely gentle tone, the vigilante said, “I know.”

The pressure on Castiel’s back disappeared. Castiel immediately wriggled himself around and struggled into a sitting position, made all the harder by the fact that his hands were handcuffed behind his back.

Hunter was standing a safe distance away from Castiel, too far away for Castiel to lash out at him. With a prickle of annoyance, Castiel noted that Hunter was holding Castiel’s pistol in his hand. He pulled the clip out before laying the pistol down on the ground, frustratingly far out of Castiel's reach.

“You know this, and you still do it?” Castiel let out a loud, disdainful snort before shaking his head incredulously. “You really _are_ insane.”

Hunter chuckled humorlessly. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“I notice you’re not denying it,” Castiel couldn’t resist pointing out.

Hunter’s gaze shot up to meet Castiel’s, his lips twitching up into a small, lopsided grin. He looked initially surprised at his own reaction, but then the grin widened and he said with a self-deprecating smirk, “No, I’m not.”

There was a distinct lack of hostility in his voice. Maybe even something like friendliness.

Oh god, were they having a _moment_? Was Castiel having a _moment_ with the crazed masked felon with the thing for black leather, who had not only resisted arrest but also handcuffed Castiel with his own handcuffs? Was this some kind of weird Stockholm syndrome thing?

Castiel wondered if he should be more concerned about this.

However, it still didn’t stop him from asking, “So why do you do it then? Dress up in a hood and a mask and run around playing superhero?” He didn’t know what possessed him to add, “I assume it’s not just your obvious black leather fetish.”

The vigilante’s lips quirked. He sounded distinctly amused as he answered, “Not a big fan of my fashion choices, I see.”

“Yes, your mask is especially bad. You really should consider taking it off.”

“Nice try, detective. I’m not that easy.” Hunter gave Castiel a knowing smirk.

Castiel tried to ignore how there was something strangely charming about the way Hunter smiled despite the fact that all Castiel could see was a bit of chin and his lips.

“The mask doesn’t come off. At least… not till the third date.” Hunter winked.

Was Hunter actually _flirting_ with him? Castiel could not help the furious blush heating up his cheeks. Even in this dim lighting, he was sure that Hunter could see everything.

However, even if he did notice, Hunter did not comment. The teasing smile slowly faded from his face as his expression turned serious. He sighed softly. “I guess- I just wanted to… do _something_.”

He turned to look Castiel in the eye. “You’re a cop, you should what I mean when I say that things are shit out here. There are bad people running free, wrecking the lives of others. People that all the courts and the policemen of the world can’t catch. People that slip through the cracks. Like Crowley.”

Castiel couldn’t refute that, but that still didn’t mean that answer was vigilantism.

Frowning, he said, “So you think you’re somehow better than the police and the courts? Who gave you the right to pass judgment on these people? What makes you so special?”

“I don’t know, maybe ‘cause I’m the only one crazy enough to do it? Or maybe it’s because I’m a fine, upstanding citizen with an impeccable sense of justice and unimpeachable morals?” Hunter chuckled and paused for a moment before declaring brightly, “But really, I’d like to think it’s because of my perky nipples.”

He gave Castiel an unbelievably shameless shit-eating grin.

Castiel stared at him in incredulous disbelief, open-mouthed. He wasn’t sure whether to be more furious or appalled.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” Hunter said, still grinning unabashedly, “It’s one of my finest qualities.”

“You’re… unbelievable,” Castiel finally managed to say.

There was something strangely fond about the grin Hunter threw his way. “Well, as pleasant as this little chat has been, I’ve got places to be. Until next time, detective.”

“I’ll catch you sooner or later,” Castiel told him.

“I’m counting on it,” Hunter said, and he fired his grappling hook. Castiel was treated to a nice, long view of that splendidly fine ass as it sailed off into the night sky. He sighed.

Dean was right. The leather really didn’t leave terribly much to the imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I will never stop with the ass jokes. Sorry not sorry.


	3. Vigilantes Don't Send Love Letters (They Send Criminals)

It took a truly embarrassing amount of time before Castiel, by some heretofore undiscovered latent contortionist talent, managed to twist himself into a position where he was able to grab his phone from his trench coat pocket with his handcuffed hands. He heaved a great sigh of relief. The phone promptly slipped out from his grasp and clattered noisily to the ground.

It was official. The universe _hated_ him.

Sure, Castiel could just have saved himself a lot of trouble and walked back to the warehouse. The warehouse that was now undoubtedly teeming with his fellow police officers, all of whom would have a lovely time laughing themselves sick at the sight of the great detective Castiel Milton in handcuffs after having lost the vigilante he was supposed to catch. Talk about a walk of shame. Yeah, thanks but no thanks.

Castiel was thus forced to engage in the second most humiliating experience of his night so far.

He shook off his right shoe, no mean feat given that he was always conscientious about tying his laces securely. It took about five tries, until finally, in a fit of pique, Castiel shook his foot so hard his shoe was flung a few feet into the air, landing god only knows where in the cursed dank, dark alleyway. With the heel of his other foot, Castiel managed to drag the sock off his right foot. He then proceeded to stab at his phone uselessly with his toes until he finally hit the right buttons.

“Where the hell have you been?” Sam’s voice came over the line, and Castiel had never before in his life been so glad to hear that pissed off tone.

Castiel even forgave Sam for his extremely unsubtle snort of laughter when he came upon Castiel, slouched miserably against the wall, hands cuffed and one foot bare, glaring murderously at the air while inwardly cursing Hunter’s name.

Unfortunately for Castiel’s sorely hurt pride, this little parade of indignities had not quite come to an end yet. In fact, it had barely begun.

 

To say that Zachariah was not best pleased with the anti-vigilante task force’s latest humiliation at the hands of Hunter would be like saying that the Arctic could sometimes be a tad chilly. In fact, chilly disapproval was about all Castiel was experiencing from his superior now.

“Am I to understand that you nearly had the vigilante in custody, but he managed to… disarm you? And then he… handcuffed you. With your own handcuffs.” Zachariah’s eyebrow was raised in a manner that told Castiel his intelligence (and general competency as a police officer) were currently evaluated as being about on par as that of a particularly dim-witted toddler.

“Yes, sir,” Castiel muttered miserably, “That is correct.”

“What happened to shoot on sight, Detective Milton? You were authorized to use lethal force on the vigilante.”

Castiel sighed. “I thought—”

“What? That you would give him a sporting chance? That perhaps Hunter would just lay down his weapons and come quietly if you spoke to him _nicely_? Need I remind you— this is a dangerous murderer you’re dealing with. He’s shown nothing but disregard and contempt for the law and its officers. He’s a psychopath. He doesn’t _deserve_ mercy.” Before Castiel could respond, Zachariah gave him a stern look. “What is it I always tell you, Detective Milton?”

Castiel sighed again, but inwardly this time. Wearily, he said, “You can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs.”

Zachariah smiled. It made him look uncannily like a weasel. “Yes! That’s correct, Castiel. How wonderful it is to see that you can still remember _some_ of the things I tell you.”

Yes, Castiel’s boss could really be quite bitchy sometimes.

“See that you don’t let your… squeamishness… get the better of you again next time, Detective. I trust I don’t need to warn you about the consequences if this unit is once again disgraced. You’re dismissed.” With one last disdainful hand wave, Zachariah proceeded to ignore Castiel’s presence in his office.

Castiel was only too glad to leave.

 

Apparently even Dean had heard about Castiel’s little misadventure with the vigilante. Dean was over at Castiel’s place, whipping up what smelled like a truly fantastic dinner of bacon cheeseburgers, when he brought the dreaded Hunter incident up.

Grinning, he said, “Sam told me there was quite a bit of excitement on your latest stake-out. I hear Hunter even put in an appearance?”

Castiel sighed. “Well. I did encounter the vigilante. It… didn’t end so well for me.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he said as he flipped a patty over.

Castiel fought the urge to duck his head. “I thought I had him, but he knocked my gun away. With a throwing knife. Then… he sat on me. And used my own handcuffs on me. It was just about as humiliating as it sounds.” Castiel sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The less said about it, the better.”

Both Dean’s eyebrows were up now. “Ohhhh-kaaayyy,” he said slowly. But then he grinned. “So was Hunter’s ass really as spectacular in real life as in your ass shrine photos?”

“Dean!” Castiel squawked in indignation.

“What?” said Dean, all wide-eyed, smiley innocence. “It’s a perfectly valid question.”

Castiel glared at Dean. Technically, he wasn’t _really_ lying when he said, “I had far more pressing matters on my mind then the vigilante’s ass. Like, you know, _apprehending a dangerous criminal?”_

Unashamed, Dean drawled, “You gotta admit, Cas, it’s a really spectacular ass. Those butt cheeks looked _incredibly_ firm.” He gave Castiel a cheeky grin and waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

Castiel glared daggers at him. Dean just laughed happily at the annoyed expression on Castiel’s face, because he was the kind of stupid, ridiculous assbutt who delighted in his boyfriend’s misery.

“I take back everything I ever said about you being a good boyfriend. I’ve changed my mind. You’re a _terrible_ boyfriend.”

Dean grinned at him. “Aww, Cas, you don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” Castiel told him. In a low mutter, he added, “You should just go date Hunter and his incredible butt cheeks. The two of you are both equally insane. And ridiculous. You’d be perfect for each other.”

“Too bad my heart belongs only to one man,” Dean declared dramatically, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders and leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. “No amount of sexy leather or firm butt cheeks will lure me away from him.”

Castiel chuckled and gave Dean a quick peck on the lips. “Shut up, you sappy fool. And get _your_ ass back to the stove before you burn the burgers.”

Dean smirked. “Your wish is my command.”

 

\---

 

It turned out that Crowley was just the first of several little ‘gifts’ the vigilante had for the Metro City police force. Over the next few days, a surprising number of formerly elusive criminals were found gagged and trussed up like Christmas turkeys in front of the courthouse steps. Most of them were lightly bruised, but other than a particularly vicious rapist who had both legs broken, as a whole, the criminals had all arrived surprisingly undamaged.

It was uncharacteristically merciful behavior from Hunter.

Somewhere along the line, Hunter had even begun to leave little personalized messages, much to Castiel’s bemusement and later, growing embarrassment. It was just small notes at first, left tagged onto the unconscious criminals. Usually, they just said ‘Delivery for Detective Milton’ and were signed simply ‘Hunter’.

Then one morning Castiel arrived at work to find a small crowd gathered around the steps leading up to the police station. Most of the people there were immediately recognizable as fellow cops, but there were also several civilian rubberneckers gawking unabashedly at whatever it was that had Castiel’s colleagues so flustered. Bewildered and slightly concerned, Castiel approached the scene with a flicker of trepidation.

As he neared, the crowd parted before him as the cops recognized Castiel and moved out of his way respectfully. Castiel had to admit that it was one of the perks that came from having a reputation that he especially enjoyed.

Castiel stepped forward to find lying on the ground one very angry and trussed up woman. She was spitting curses and wriggling about like a particularly vicious worm, though her furious stream of invectives was somewhat muffled from the cloth sack tied around her head. Castiel felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to find a note being proffered to him by Sam.

“This was on the uh… body,” Sam explained. “Looks like Hunter left a message for you.”

Sam was right. The note was indeed addressed to ‘Detective Milton’. Castiel unfolded it, brows furrowed, and began reading.

 

_I thought about what you said the other night. You know, about justice, morality, my terrible fashion choices. Sorry, the leather’s here to stay. But what I can do is change a few other things. I had been thinking about changing them anyway, but I guess your words really gave me the kick in the pants to finally do so. So yeah, thanks for that. Anyway. Consider this an apology for cuffing you up so rudely during our last meeting. I’m usually way more of a gentleman. But you know, that kinda changes when people are trying to arrest me._

_Until next time,_

_Hunter_

_P.S I hope you like my gift. This one was a little harder to catch than the usual._

 

Castiel stared blankly at the note for a few moments more, before tucking it away in one of his trench coat pockets. The thought of handing it back to Sam as evidence didn't even cross his mind.

With a strange mix of anticipation and apprehension, Castiel lifted the cloth sack off the head of Hunter’s latest victim.

Lilith, head of one of the biggest crime rings in the country, wanted not only by the MCPD but by the FBI and several other states for child prostitution and drug crimes, glared balefully back at him.

Her blonde hair was in a mess and she had a large, beautifully purpling bruise blooming around her right eye, but other than that, she seemed perfectly unharmed. From the extremely enthusiastic way she had been cursing, it was obvious that her spirit (and vocal chords) had not been in any way affected by her latest ordeal.

“Why, if it isn’t the detective that’s got Hunter in such a _tizzy_ ,” she spat, “Fuck you and your deranged freak of an admirer. When I’m done with you—”

Castiel tuned the rest of her ranting out. At this stage in his police career, he didn’t feel the need to listen to the standard “you’ll pay for this” parting speeches anymore.

He still felt slightly dazed. Well, who could blame him? It wasn’t just every day that one of the most infamously slippery criminals in this part of the country just dropped into your hands like that. The police had been struggling to catch Lilith for _years_. And here she was, left on Castiel’s doorstep by Hunter like a dead mouse being dropped off by Whiskers the kitty. Castiel wasn’t too sure how he should be feeling about this.

Shock? Yes. Elation? Justifiable. A strange mix of fondness and gratitude? … Maybe not.

At Castiel’s nod, two of the nearby officers stepped forward and took Lilith by the arms. “You are under arrest,” one of them began, “You have the right to remain silent—”

“Strange,” commented Hannah, one of the detectives in Castiel’s team. “This is entirely different from Hunter’s usual M.O. It’s almost like he’s… mellowed. He usually just kills them. Especially the ones like Lilith. I mean, did you hear what she did to those babies?” She shook her head in disgust before continuing musingly, “I wonder what’s caused this change of heart.”

“I’d say our vigilante’s got himself a little crush,” her partner, Balthazar, drawled. He gave Castiel a meaningful look, smirking.

Castiel just stared back at him in dead silence, his mouth a thin line of disapproval, until the smirk dropped off Balthazar’s face and sighing, he turned away and trudged back to the police station. “Right. Back to work,” he said glumly, “Duty beckons.”

“What did the note say?”

Castiel startled slightly at Sam’s voice, hand automatically going towards where he had stashed the note in his pocket. None of your business, he felt like saying, but then he realized how ridiculous that would be. Why was he being so protective anyway, treating Hunter’s little missive like some kind of… love letter. Or a note from a secret admirer. That was just ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Obviously.

Still, all Castiel said was, “Nothing important. Just the usual. You know.”

Sam looked at him a little skeptically and Castiel fought the urge to fidget. “Okay,” Sam finally muttered in a tone that quite clearly said that he didn’t believe a single word out of Castiel’s mouth but he was just going to let it go anyway.

Castiel heaved a little sigh of inward relief and then promptly felt ridiculous.

It was just a note. Nothing more. Really.

And if Castiel happened to re-read Hunter's note half a dozen more times in the privacy of his office, clearly it was just for forensic purposes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean Winchester for Boyfriend of the Year. Because leaving your detective boyfriend presents of beaten up criminals is the height of romance, obviously.


	4. Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do note that the rating has been revised upwards because certain naughty bits are making an appearance this chapter. Gird your loins, gentle readers.

 

The steady stream of gift-wrapped criminals did not stop over the next few weeks, though Hunter himself remained frustratingly elusive. The vigilante was a ghost, here one moment and gone the next. It was almost as though he somehow knew exactly where the cops were going to be. Castiel almost suspected a mole, but everyone in his team had been handpicked; he trusted all of them implicitly.

Besides, Hunter was known to be working with a hacker. Even Castiel had to admit that the MCPD’s information security measures were more than a little…lackluster. They were to a broken sieve what an ocean was to a drop of water.

He blamed Zachariah. Their police chief was practically a relic from the Stone Age. Even Dean, so IT-challenged he once thought MySpace was a porn site, was better than Castiel’s dinosaur of a boss. The man would rather spend their budget on motivational posters and team-bonding exercises than invest in a good firewall. It was no wonder that the vigilante was running circles around them while they floundered about like headless chickens.

(Castiel had once tried to enforce a no-tech-allowed rule in the office. Everyone had bitched and moaned endlessly about it, and even Castiel had to admit that it reached the stage of hair-tearing frustration when he had to attempt to decipher Balthazar’s handwriting in a thirty page report. They collectively gave up within a week.)

It didn’t at all help Castiel’s job that the press had picked up on Hunter’s little about-face. What was once a psychotic, dangerous criminal who had to be put down for the greater good was now the darling of the city, a shining, selfless paragon of justice in this dark age of greed and moral decay. You’d think that Hunter spent all his days rescuing kittens from trees and helping little old ladies across the street from all the good press he was getting.

It was hard to feel like you had the moral high ground when the criminal you were hunting was being hailed as a hero by the newspapers daily. Nowadays, it seemed that it was _Castiel_ and his colleagues who were being seen as the bad guys. The unfairness of it all was of galactic proportions.

Where before Hunter had been perfectly happy to ignore petty street-level crime and instead focused on murdering his way through the kingpins of the Metro City underworld, in the same two weeks that Castiel spent chasing down useless leads and grilling minor criminals for information on Hunter’s whereabouts, Hunter somehow managed not only to capture ten wanted criminals, but to foil two bank robberies and countless would-be muggings. The papers were saying he was doing a better job than the actual cops were. It was, frankly, rather shaming.

After yet another frustratingly fruitless day at the station, Castiel was driving home when the police radio he’d installed in his car crackled to life. A 211 was in progress at Upper East Side. This put Castiel a mere two blocks away. Castiel had not been a street cop for going on a decade, but old habits die hard, and Castiel radioed in that he was going to assist.

That was how he found himself once again face to face with the cause of all his troubles at work.

Castiel came skidding into the alleyway where the mugging was supposedly in progress, service pistol already raised. Somehow, he wasn’t really too surprised to find Hunter there, right in the middle of all the action, punching out muggers left, right and center while vaulting about to evade their blows. He even did a freaking _backflip_ once.

The parkour was extremely showy, and Castiel had to resist the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes at the flashiness of it. However, he had to admit it was rather impressive to watch. The lithe, quick motions of the vigilante as he leapt about, felling criminals with deadly grace, also made the tightness of his black leather suit as it stuck to the contours of his body all the more noticeable.

Not that Castiel was particularly inclined to notice things like that or anything.

Hunter’s eyes only widened a fraction when he noticed Castiel’s entrance. The vigilante didn’t miss a beat as he ducked a knife to his gut, grabbing his assailant’s wrist and twisting until there was a loud crack and the criminal dropped the knife with a pained yelp. In one smooth move, Hunter caught the falling knife and threw it at a criminal aiming a gun at him. It spun through the air and hit the man right in his gun hand, causing him to drop his weapon. Hunter followed this up by running up to him and hitting him with a vicious right hook that left the man groaning on the ground.

The night was quiet except for the quiet whimpers and groans of the various muggers. Other than a small, pink Hello Kitty purse with a broken strap, there was no trace of their victim. Obviously, the purse’s owner had long fled the scene, a wise choice of action.

Hunter turned away from where he had been surveying his handiwork with a small, triumphant smirk on his face and flashed Castiel a grin.

“Fancy meeting you here, Detective,” Hunter drawled. He seemed entirely unfazed by Castiel’s presence and the gun Castiel had levelled at him. “What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

But Hunter did show his first overt sign of surprise when Castiel fired his gun. He flinched, eyes wide, and took a step backwards. Behind the vigilante, the mugger who had been aiming a gun at Hunter’s head collapsed to the ground with a pained yell, clutching his upper arm where Castiel’s bullet had struck home.

Hunter spun around at the criminal’s yell, and the tension drained from his stance as he took in the scene. He turned back to face Castiel, a small smile on his face.

“Thanks,” he said, and Castiel could not deny that there was sincere gratitude in his tone.

“I was only doing my job,” was Castiel’s gruff reply. He did not lower his gun.

“Gonna shoot me next?” Hunter asked with a crooked grin. Damn it, a grin so charming had no business being on the face of a criminal like Hunter.

Castiel did not answer for a very long while.

“Why are you doing this?” he finally said. “Why are you being so…” He wavered a long time before settling on the word, and it came out sounding less authoritative and more plaintive than he wanted, “ _nice_?”

Castiel couldn’t see Hunter’s face, the mask and hood hid too much of that, but somehow he just _knew_ that Hunter was raising an eyebrow at him.

Castiel was never the most socially adroit person, but it seemed that he was getting even more verbally stilted than usual at the moment. What exactly was it about the vigilante that had him reduced to a tongue-tied mess? This was a dangerous criminal, damn it, not his high school crush.

Awkwardly, he said, “I mean. Why are you sending me all these criminals? Why are you suddenly Mr. Nice Superhero, taking time off from cleaning up the underworld to save, I dunno-” Castiel motioned at the fallen pink purse lying on the ground between them “- _Hello Kitty purses_ from a bunch of muggers?”

Hunter’s smile was equal parts amused and fond. “Maybe you’re a good influence on me, Detective. Who knows?” He shrugged and the smirk he threw Castiel’s way was enough to tempt a saint to sin.

“I have a boyfriend,” Castiel blurted and immediately felt like digging himself a nice deep hole in the ground to crawl into forever.

Okay, Hunter was definitely raising his eyebrows at Castiel now.

“Relationship status duly noted, Detective,” Hunter said dryly before chuckling and adding in a low mutter, “Wow. That sure escalated quickly.”

Castiel felt like burying his head in his hands. If it was possible to die of mortification, he would be six feet under already.

“So,” said Hunter in the awkward silence that followed, “Still not gonna shoot me?” When Castiel did not reply, he said, “Well, if you’re not planning on arresting me tonight, I’ll just get going then. Criminals to beat up, Hello Kitty purses to save. You know how it is.”

He shot Castiel one last smirk.

Then he was gone in one quick fire of his grappling hook, leaving Castiel standing in an alleyway filled with beaten up criminals, hoping to god that none of them had been conscious enough to overhear that mortally embarrassing conversation. It was one detail he would definitely not be mentioning in his report.

 

\---

 

Castiel was on his knees on the top of a skyscraper, hands cuffed behind his back. The wind was whipping his hair about wildly, and the moon was high in the starless sky.

Before him, facing off like mortal enemies, were Dean and Hunter.

Dean’s teeth were bared in a fierce snarl, his eyes bright with a deadly gleam. “How dare you?” he hissed at Hunter. “Release Cas now.”

Hunter just smirked. “I don’t think so,” he drawled. “The detective belongs to _me_ now.”

Dean was furious as he snarled, “You can’t have him. He’s my boyfriend.”

Hunter beckoned at Dean, smirking mockingly. “Oh, really? Come get him if you can, pretty boy.”

Dean leapt at the vigilante, and both of them went tumbling to the ground.

“Cas is _mine_ , you son of a bitch,” Dean growled as he leaned in to glare at Hunter threateningly. He wrapped both hands around Hunter’s neck, squeezing furiously, the muscles in his arms bulging. But Hunter managed to throw Dean off him with a kick.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” the vigilante said, smirking. He punched Dean in the face, sending Dean reeling. Dean just wiped the blood from his lips and kept on fighting. He tried to punch Hunter but the vigilante caught the blow easily and slammed Dean up against a wall.

Then suddenly things _changed_.

Hunter grabbed Dean’s face roughly, but it wasn’t to punch Dean again. No, Hunter was pulling Dean in for a bruising kiss, licking the blood off Dean’s lips. Dean kissed back just as fiercely, raking his nails down the side of Hunter's neck, making the vigilante moan and buck up against him. Growling, Hunter deepened the kiss, and Dean’s hands moved downwards until they found Hunter’s firm, leather-clad ass and _squeezed._

Hunter growled at that, and Castiel felt all his blood rushing south at that sound.

“You think- you think you can take Cas away from me?” Dean snarled. With a growl, he yanked Hunter’s collar open and bit down at the exposed flesh. Hunter gave a low grunt, jerking up, and from what Castiel could see of his face, not covered by the mask, his mouth was open in a gasp of pain mixed with pleasure.

Hunter yanked Dean’s head back roughly. “I don’t think, I _know._ ”

“Hah, hah,” Dean panted as he rubbed himself against Hunter. Hunter lifted his right hand up, biting down on his leather glove to tug it off before spitting it out to one side. He reached down with his un-gloved hand and unzipped Dean’s jeans, yanking them open to reach into Dean’s briefs and grab his hard cock.

Dean keened at the touch on his cock and he let out loud gasps of pleasure as Hunter jerked him off roughly. After some wrestling with the incredibly tight leather, Dean finally managed to get one hand squeezed into the back of Hunter’s pants. He did something with his fingers which made Hunter jerk, eyes widening, and let out a truly filthy noise that went straight to Castiel’s dick.

Castiel must have also made some kind of noise because both Hunter and Dean turned to look at him with nearly identical smirks. They slowly untwined themselves from each other before sauntering over to where Castiel was kneeling, panting and rock hard.

“Would you like to join us, Detective Milton?” Hunter asked. His soft, laconic drawl held promises of thoroughly wicked pleasure. Dean nodded, licking his lips. “Yeah, why don’t you join in, Cas?” he said, eyes half-lidded and dark with lust. “We’ll make it so good for you.”

“Yes,” Hunter whispered, “So good.”

“Oh god, yes. Yes, yes, yes—” Castiel said. He was entirely helpless in the face of those wicked smirks. Hunter leaned in to lick at Castiel’s neck, one hand moving to trace the curve of Castiel’s ass. Dean sank to his knees, eyes bright with delighted mischief, reaching out a hand to undo Castiel’s pants. His hand was slipping inside, Castiel could almost feel the warmth of Dean’s fingers on his cock—

 

Castiel woke up, his briefs almost entirely sodden through. There was a truly impressive tent in his pants. Castiel pulled his underwear down to reveal his cock. It was incredibly hard, completely erect and practically gushing pre-cum. Castiel stared down at it, feeling both awed and ashamed. He hadn’t had a wet dream of this power since he was a teenager.

It was also the most confusing, weird and inexplicably hot sex dream he had had in years. He wondered if he should be worried about what was going on in his subconscious.

However, a throb of pleasure when Castiel shifted, accidentally rubbing his cock against the sheets, reminded him of his more immediate problem. With a sad sigh, Castiel resigned himself to having to take care of it all by his lonesome. Dean wasn’t around and Castiel would be far too mortified to ask him anyway.

As he stroked himself in the shower, he very determinedly did not think of either Hunter or Dean or the sounds they had made during his dream.

It was the black leather, he thought morosely. It was all the fault of that goddamned black leather.

 

\---

 

Dean burst into laughter, even as Castiel glared at him furiously. “This isn’t funny, Dean!” he hissed, but Dean continued laughing away, like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried. He was rocking back and forth with the force of his laughter, tears of mirth streaming from his eyes.

Castiel really failed to see what on earth was so amusing.

“Shouldn’t you be jealous?” Castiel said, a touch plaintively. “I did dream about Hunter. In, y’know…” He fought the blush he knew was staining his cheeks. “… _that way_.”

Dean continued laughing, but in between his huge, belly-shaking laughs, he managed to gasp out, “This is priceless. This is truly priceless.”

He wiped at the tears rolling down his face. “Hunter… was… fighting me… for your love.” He let out a huge guffaw. “He was my… _love rival_. And then we had… we had… _hate sex_ before we propositioned you for a… a… _threesome!_ Oh god, just wait till Sam hears about this.”

“Dean!” Castiel yelped, mortified, “You are not telling your brother about this! I swear I will _murder you_!”

Dean was still laughing helplessly.

“It’s embarrassing enough telling you!” Castiel folded his arms sulkily. “I only told you because I felt guilty! And now you’re laughing at me!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Dean managed to gasp out in between his chuckles, “I’m sorry. I won’t tell anyone. And I appreciate you telling me this. I know how- ha- har—” Dean burst into another round of helpless giggles. “— _hard_ it must have been.” He sniggered.

Castiel gave Dean his most stony, unimpressed glare.

“Okay, okay, I’m gonna stop now. I’m gonna stop,” Dean said between chortles. “But wait— I’ve got a very important question.” His grin widened. “During this fantasy hate sex… Who topped? Me or Hunter?”

“Oh my god,” said Castiel, “I can’t even believe you.”

“Seriously, Cas, you gotta tell me.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. Hunter hates me. We had delicious hate sex. Now, c’mon. Whose dick was stuck in whose ass?”

Castiel gave Dean a truly withering glare. “Nobody’s dick was stuck in nobody’s ass, alright! There was no anal sex involved at all! Nothing actually happened! There wasn’t even a single orgasm to be had all around!”

Dean chuckled. “Even your kinky sex dreams are so vanilla, Cas,” he said fondly, “You really are an innocent little angel.”

“A vanilla kinky sex dream is an oxymoron, Dean,” Castiel said grouchily, “And you are an assbutt. A big, stupid, ridiculous assbutt. I don’t know why I bothered telling you about this.”

“Aww. Don’t be angry, Cas. I didn’t mean to make fun of you. Really.” Dean’s puppy dog eyes could have slain monsters; they were just that powerful. “Forgive me?” The puppy dog eyes ratcheted up a further notch. “…Please?”

The frown fell off Castiel’s face and he allowed Dean to pull him into his arms. Dean could be extremely infuriating at times, but somehow, Castiel could never stay angry with him for long. It was part of Dean’s peculiar brand of charm. He allowed Dean to nuzzle at his neck, turning his face to Dean’s for a kiss when Dean nibbled at his ear.

When they finally broke away from the kiss, Castiel asked quietly, “But aren’t you angry?”

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. “Why should I be?”

Castiel looked away, feeling the shame surge up in him again. He couldn’t help but feel he had betrayed Dean somehow. “Cos, you know, I— I thought about Hunter. I wasn’t… faithful. To you.” He finally dared to look up at Dean through lowered lashes. To his surprise, Dean was smiling.

Dean gave Castiel an amused look that was mixed with fond exasperation. “Aww, Cas, you big old mean grouch. You really are a big sappy teddy bear inside, aren't you? I’m not mad at all. In fact, I’m really touched you told me.”

“But—”

“Look, Cas. Don’t think I haven't noticed how your eyes linger on my brother’s ass a little longer than they should sometimes. And I’m sure you’ve noticed how I always take a little gander at Tessa whenever I pass her by at the station.

“The thing is- maybe we feel these things, yeah. We’re only human. But we don’t act on it. At the end of the day, I know you won’t choose Hunter. You’ll choose me. The person you’ll always come home to is me.” There was a flicker of something strange and unfathomably sad in Dean’s eyes as he spoke. But then the moment passed. Castiel was probably just seeing things.

“I love you, Cas,” Dean said softly. He smiled, and Castiel could feel the warmth of it suffusing him, washing all his worries away. It felt like his heart could burst from the love he could feel brimming in it.

“And I love you, Dean,” Castiel replied, and when he kissed Dean, slow and tender, not even the stray, rebellious thought that briefly crossed his mind, wondering whether it’d feel the same kissing Hunter, could make the happiness Castiel felt go away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I wrote this while listening to maybe a little too much Eurythmics.


	5. In The Name Of Understanding Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Kylie Minogue’s ‘Confide In Me’. Something Dean really should be doing in relation to Cas, one would think ;D
> 
> For those not in the know, a CI is a confidential/criminal informant. Basically, a snitch.

When Castiel asked his CI to put the word out on the street that he wanted to meet up with Hunter on a purely unofficial basis, no handcuffs or Miranda warnings involved, the first thing Meg did was laugh.

“Oh Clarence,” she said pityingly, shaking her head in mock-sadness. “Firstly, what makes you think I’ve got any kind of line on Hunter? In case you haven’t noticed? He’s the one who’s been gleefully murdering me and my criminal scum ilk. I’m not suicidal, thank you. Secondly, why on earth would he even want to speak to _you_?”

She gave Clarence a knowing look. “I know half the criminal underworld thinks that he’s nursing some kind of epic crush on you, but no offence, Clarence. Hunter’s not _stupid_. I’ve watched him take down all the big kahunas. Azazel, Alistair, Eve… There’s a reason why people in my line of work don’t like to talk about Hunter. He’s a one-man killing machine. Kind of like a male version of The Bride from Kill Bill. Except less yellow jumpsuit, more black leather.”

Castiel frowned at her. Throughout this conversation, his patience had been slowly but surely inching towards its limit. “I don’t understand that reference,” he gritted out.

Meg rolled her eyes; condescension was practically dripping off her in waves. “Why am I not surprised? Look, I know you want to catch this guy bad, Clarence. But believe me, this trick of yours? I’ll let you in on a secret-” Meg leaned in to mock-whisper into Castiel’s ear, and she gave him an extremely patronizing wink, “- _it isn’t going to work_.”

“It’s not a trick,” Castiel snapped, unable to stop the frustration leaking into his tone. “I just want to talk to Hunter. I’m not trying to catch him.”

“ _Okaaaay_ ,” drawled Meg, “And you’ve also sworn off dick for the rest of your life. Pull the other one, Clarence.”

Castiel did not dignify that with a reply.

“Hunter _will_ come,” he said with steely conviction. “Just put out the word.”

Meg raised an eyebrow, but all she said as she took her customary wad of cash from him was, “You’re the boss, Clarence.”

 

\---

 

It was Friday night. Dean was out getting (undoubtedly) ragingly drunk with Benny and the other guys from the VA, and Castiel was having a nice quiet night in at home for once instead of being stuck in the office, poring over reports of Hunter. It was a nice break. He was finally free to kick back, relax, eat as much popcorn and ice cream as he wanted, and watch as many seasons as he wanted of that trashy medical drama Dean had somehow gotten him hooked on.

Castiel smiled happily, collected the ice cream from the freezer and the popcorn from the microwave, and put the DVD on. Dr Sexy MD awaited his viewing pleasure.

Castiel was in the middle of season five episode thirteen, _You Arrest My Heart_ , watching Dr Sexy engage in a nicely steamy make-out session with his love interest and rival neurosurgeon, Dr Chandler, when suddenly there was a high-pitched whining noise and the TV screen went black in a crackle of static. Castiel paused mid-crunch on a mouthful of popcorn. Next thing Castiel knew, the lights in his apartment had all gone out and he was left sitting in darkness.

Stifling a curse, Castiel got off from the couch to find the fuse box. In the next moment, he barked his shin against the coffee table and the curse he had been stifling came right out. He rubbed at the sore spot on his leg sulkily, feeling miffed that his pleasant night had been derailed by this sudden electrical outage. His Mint Chocolate Chunk ice cream would probably be all melted by the time he finally managed to get the power back on.

“So I hear you’ve been looking to talk to me,” came an all-too-familiar deep drawl. Castiel spun around, startled, to find the vigilante lounging casually against Castiel’s living room wall.

Hunter’s gaze flickered down at Castiel’s feet, currently ensconced in the pink fluffy bunny rabbit slippers that Dean had gotten him as a joke, but which Castiel had since started wearing unironically. (They were _very_ fluffy. Castiel loved them.)

“Nice buns,” Hunter said, deadpan. In the dim illumination provided by the moonlight streaming in from the balcony, Castiel could see that Hunter’s lips were quirked in his usual smirk.

The sight of the vigilante, black leather and all, in Castiel’s apartment was so incongruous that Castiel had a moment of mental inertia. Then a sense of growing horror overtook him and he blurted, “How do you know where I live? Have you been _stalking me_?”

Oblivious to Castiel’s mounting rage, Hunter drawled, “Turnabout’s fair play, isn’t it, Detective?” His smirk was without a single trace of shame. ‘Look at me,’ that smirk said, ‘Aren’t I adorable?’ Castiel wanted to punch it off his face.

Hunter had straightened up from his slouch against the wall. Now he was strolling idly around Castiel’s apartment. His gaze lingered on a framed photograph that stood in pride of place on the coffee table. It was Castiel’s favorite photo of himself and Dean, a candid shot that Sam had taken of them one day when they had been having a picnic at the park. They were looking at each other, not the camera, Castiel grinning widely as Dean planted a dainty little kiss on the tip of his nose.

Suddenly, Castiel was filled with an incredible surge of protectiveness. He couldn’t stand the thought of Hunter looking at that small private moment of his and Dean’s, waltzing about in Castiel’s home like he somehow had a right to be here.

“No, it isn’t,” Castiel growled. Hunter looked briefly startled at Castiel’s fury. “Now get the fuck out of my house.”

Castiel grabbed his service pistol from where it had been sitting on the table next to his abandoned popcorn. He unclicked the safety and aimed it at Hunter.

“Woah, woah, woah,” said Hunter, backing away with his hands raised in a placating gesture. He was starting to look extremely nervous, as if it had somehow only just dawned on him that he might not be entirely welcome when barging into someone’s house in the middle of the night, uninvited. There was a hunted look on his face— the look of a man who was just beginning to realize that he had quite severely misjudged the situation.

“Did you just wake up this morning with the fabulous idea that you’d add breaking and entering and trespass to your laundry list of crimes?” Castiel snapped. “This is private property. Did I ever give you license to enter? I don’t think so. Now get out.”

Hunter was looking extremely chastened now. His voice was slightly plaintive as he said, “But you said you wanted to meet. In an unofficial capacity.”

“Not in my _house_ , you idiot! And even if it was in my house, there’s this thing that us normal people use. We call it a _doorbell_.”

“But—”

“Get out. I won’t ask nicely again.” Castiel waved his pistol threateningly.

Hunter’s shoulders sagged. He slunk out from Castiel’s living room and headed over to the balcony. He shot one last pleading look at Castiel, and it was amazing how much pathos could be conveyed even through a cowl and a leather mask. But Castiel stood firm, glaring pointedly at Hunter until the vigilante swung himself off the balcony and onto the fire escape. He disappeared from Castiel’s view as he shimmied down the fire escape to the ground. Castiel imagined he would probably then proceed to slink dejectedly off into the night.

Castiel went off to find the fuse box. By the time he finally managed get the lights back on, about half an hour had passed and Castiel’s temper had finally simmered down. He sat back on the couch, reaching out for the remote to turn the television back on. Then the doorbell rang.

Castiel’s eyebrows went up. He walked over to the door and peered through the peephole. Distorted by the fish-eye view of the peephole was a startling sight: Hunter, standing in his apartment hallway, looking extremely awkward. Under the bright fluorescent lighting, he looked absolutely ridiculous, mask, cowl, black leather outfit and all.

“Uh…” he said eloquently. “May I come in?”

He held something up to the peephole. After a while of squinting at it, Castiel finally realized that it was a pint of ice cream. The exact same kind of Mint Chocolate Chunk ice cream that Castiel had been forced to abandon because of Hunter’s prior shenanigans. Whatever else Hunter was, at least he was observant and he knew how to make a good apology.

Castiel sighed. “Very well.”

He slid the deadbolt back and unlocked the door. Hunter entered, a small, hesitant smile on his face. He passed Castiel the tub of ice cream, and Castiel was suddenly struck by the ridiculous image of Hunter, mask and cowl on and in his bootylicious leather outfit, walking into a Gas n’ Sip and painstakingly combing their ice cream section for the exact kind of Mint Chocolate Chunk that Castiel had been eating before awkwardly queuing up at the counter to pay for it.

He quickly disguised his snort of laughter as a cough. Thankfully, Hunter did not seem to catch on.

Even as Castiel went into the kitchen to put away the ice cream, Hunter hung around in the entrance hallway awkwardly, as if afraid to step over some kind of invisible line that said ‘No Vigilantes Allowed’. It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had so casually broken into Castiel’s apartment just half an hour ago. For a supposed stone-cold murderer, Hunter was behaving uncannily like a puppy that had been caught chewing the shoes. It was strangely charming, in an adorably awkward kind of way.

Against his will, Castiel found himself thawing a little towards Hunter. It was hard to stay mad at someone who was so obviously repentant and also behaving like a giant dork.

“Take a seat,” he told Hunter. “Since you’re already in here, I guess you might as well make yourself at home.”

Gingerly, Hunter sat down on Castiel’s ratty old couch. He looked extremely uncomfortable. For some reason, Castiel’s mind immediately fixated on the fact that he had chosen to sit exactly at Dean’s favorite spot. Which was a rather weird detail to fixate upon, when you came to think about it…

“So what did you want to speak to me about, Detective?” Hunter asked, startling Castiel out of his train of thought. “As pleasant as our chats have been, I hardly think they warrant a specific request for a _rendezvous_.” There was a sly twist to his lips as he said, “Especially given our respective roles in this little... cat and mouse game.”

He looked at Castiel expectantly. Now, it was Castiel’s turn to be fumbling for words.

“I wanted to… understand. I guess,” he finally said, “Why you’re doing… what you do.”

“Know thy enemy, Detective?” Hunter’s lips quirked. “Anyway, haven’t you already asked me this before? If I don’t remember wrongly, you’ve already concluded it’s at least in part because of my obvious black leather fetish.” He flashed Castiel a brilliant grin.

Castiel glared at him. “Would it kill you to be serious?”

Hunter sighed. “Well, I already gave you my serious answer.”

“So you’re telling me you go out there every night, risking your life and liberty, all because you want to save the world from people like Crowley and Lilith? Purely out of the goodness of your heart.”

Hunter turned his gaze on Castiel, and there was something strangely piercing about his gaze even though his eyes were thrown into deep shadow by the cowl he wore. “Is that so hard to believe, Detective?”

“Maybe,” said Castiel, “Call me a cynic, but nobody does the kind of things you do without some kind of deeply personal reason.”

Hunter let out a bark of bitter, humorless laughter. “You mean deeply personal _tragedy_ , right?” His voice was cold as he said, “I’m not sure what your endgame here is, Detective, but I’d warn you not to dig any further. You won’t like what you find.”

“Try me,” Castiel said daringly.

“Why do you care, anyway?” Hunter said, tone sharp and laced through with bitterness, “I’m a criminal. A murderer. Shouldn’t you just want to arrest me? Why does it matter what my reasons are?”

“Because you’re a good man,” Castiel found himself saying, to his own surprise, but even as he said it, he realized it was true. “Because I think that maybe… you deserve a second chance.”

Hunter scoffed loudly. “Oh yeah? You don’t even know who I am under this mask. I could be a raging psychopath for all you know.”

“Maybe I don’t know who you really are, but I _am_ a detective. In my line of work, we need to know how to read people. Also, in my experience, raging psychopaths don’t often go around foiling drug deals and punching out criminals to rescue Hello Kitty purses.”

Hunter’s lips twitched upwards, almost as if he was reluctantly amused. However, his voice was serious as he said, “If you knew half the things I’ve done, I guarantee that you’d want to put a bullet in me yourself.”

“Whatever it is that you’ve done, it’s not too late to turn back now,” Castiel said, “There’s nothing stopping you from taking off that mask and cowl. You could just quit. Leave this all behind. Have a normal life. Spend your nights sleeping instead of beating up criminals.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Even through the voice modulator, the rough rasp of raw emotion in Hunter’s voice was obvious as he said, “I made a promise.”

“Is keeping that promise really worth it? You’re facing life in prison. You could be killed any day, whether by the cops or by the criminals you’re trying to catch. Tell me— what promise is worth that price?”

Hunter’s gaze was distant. He didn’t answer.

“What about your friends? Your family? The people you love? Do they know what you’re doing? Have you ever thought about what it means for them when you put on that mask? Have you thought about how it’ll hurt them?”

“I think about it all the time,” Hunter said sadly. For some reason, the vigilante was once again staring at Castiel’s framed photograph of himself and Dean.

“That’s your boyfriend, isn’t it?” Hunter said suddenly.

Castiel was abruptly reminded of what he had so embarrassingly blurted out at Hunter during that foiled mugging. He felt his cheeks heating up a little at the memory of it.

“Yes,” he nodded. “That’s Dean.”

“You seem to care a lot about him,” Hunter commented quietly. There was some strange emotion coloring his tone. Could it be that Hunter was actually _jealous_? Perhaps there really was some truth to all those rumors about Hunter’s crush on him after all.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” Castiel took the photo frame in his hands, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly over the picture to clear away the smudges of dust, lingering on Dean’s smiling face. He found a small smile creeping onto his face as well.

“What about you?” he asked Hunter in a sudden moment of tenderness, “Do you have a special someone out there too?” Smirking, he suggested teasingly, “A Mrs. Hunter, perhaps?”

“There is no Mrs. Hunter,” Hunter said, sounding amused. “But there is someone.” He gave Castiel a crooked grin. “A _Mister_ kind of someone.”

“Oh,” said Castiel. Looks like the rumors had gotten the bit about Hunter liking men right.

“Does he know? About the-” Castiel gestured in Hunter’s direction vaguely, “You know.”

“Black leather fetish?” Hunter chuckled. “Nah, he doesn’t. He doesn’t know anything about my... nighttime activities.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been keeping this a secret from him? That doesn’t sound like the key to a healthy relationship. If Dean kept something this big from me, he’d be in the doghouse for a _very_ long time indeed _._ ”

Hunter laughed, a little too loudly. “Uh… Yeah… Well…” was his very articulate reply.

Castiel decided to spare him the agony. “So, this Mister Someone. You love him?”

“Yes,” Hunter’s reply was near-instantaneous, “With all my heart.”

Castiel inwardly rolled his eyes. Talk about cheesy. Whoever Mister Someone was, he had to be some kind of saint to put up with Hunter.

“Do you think he’d approve of what you’re doing?” Castiel said accusingly.

There was a strange smile on Hunter’s face as he said, “I’ll go out on a limb here and say the answer’s probably… no.”

“And yet you’re still doing it.”

Hunter sighed. “Look, Detective. It’s complicated, alright?”

“Break it down for me then.”

“There are some things that are more important than our lives.” Hunter looked away, and his next words were quiet, spoken as though he was trying to convince himself, “Maybe even more important than love.”

“Like what? Revenge?”

Hunter’s gaze jerked back up to Castiel’s.

Castiel was secretly gloating at the look of shock on his face. “I’m one of the best detectives in the MCPD, Hunter. I’ve been doing a little research of my own while you were busy _stalking me_. Those first murders of yours—Alistair and his allies. Those were _brutal_. It was personal.”

Hunter was silent for a long while. Then he sighed. “You’re right. I- I used to work for Alistair. I was in a bad place back then. I did a lot of terrible things, things I’m not proud of. When I realized exactly how far I’d gone, I started having second thoughts. So I ran. And I met someone. She knew what I was- what I had done, but she didn’t turn away.”

Hunter stood up from the couch and walked over to the balcony. He stared out into the night sky, gaze distant and sorrowful.

“I thought—I thought maybe I could settle down, have a normal life with her and her son. A dog, a nice house, a white picket fence. The apple pie life.”

Hunter smiled bitterly. “I should have known better. Alistair never did handle rejection very well. I was his star pupil, his protégé. No way he was gonna let me go that easily.” Hunter lapsed into silence. His fists were clenched, his mouth a thin line of grief.

“What happened to them? Your girl and her son?”” Castiel asked finally, when Hunter did not seem inclined to break his silence.

Hunter’s voice was dark with grim satisfaction as he said, “Let’s just say that Alistair paid for what he did.” After a beat, he said, “Anyway, what I’m doing… it’s not just about revenge. These people need to be stopped. And I’m the one best equipped to do so.” His smile was dark and self-deprecating. “After all, I used to work with them.”

Castiel stared searchingly at Hunter for a long while. “So you’re doing this because you’re searching for some kind of redemption?”

“No. I know that whatever I do, it isn’t gonna change a damn thing. I can’t take back what I did, and no matter how many people I save, it won’t make any difference. At the end of the day, I’m still gonna get what I deserve.” The way Hunter spoke was matter-of-fact, emotionless. His face was shadowed, his lips a thin, grim line. He clearly wasn’t trying to fish for sympathy; nevertheless, Castiel was struck by a wave of pity along with understanding.

“You don’t think you deserve to be saved, do you?” he said, “That’s why you’re doing this. You don’t think you truly deserve to be happy. That’s why you’re so willing to sacrifice your personal happiness for what you think is the greater good.”

Hunter didn’t reply.

He was silent for a very long time before he finally said, “The man I love… I love him more than life itself. When the day comes and I’m finally caught, I know it’ll break his heart. But I have to do this. No matter the cost.”

He drew a deep, ragged breath. “I can only hope that someday he’ll be able to forgive me.”

There was a look of such profound sorrow on Hunter’s face that Castiel felt an overwhelming surge of sympathy for him. The sincere heartbreak in his voice was undeniable.

Whoever this person was, Hunter really did love him. There was no doubt about that.

Abruptly, Hunter spoke again, “I appreciate you trying to talk me out of this, Detective. As you can see though, I’m kind of a lost cause.” He smirked, self-deprecating. “But well, thanks for trying. I’ll see you around.”

“Wait!” Castiel rushed forward, but Hunter took a running jump and leapt right off the balcony. He went plummeting through the air.

Horrified, Castiel leaned over the balcony railing to watch Hunter’s descent, heart in his mouth, half expecting to find Hunter a smear on the pavement seven floors down. But at the last moment, mere seconds away from hitting the ground, Hunter fired his grappling hook. Castiel watched Hunter swing up into the night sky, heart thudding. He kept watching until the vigilante finally vanished from sight. He felt strangely bereft, his thoughts troubled.

All this conversation had done was leave him with more questions than answers.


	6. A Dangerous Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Oops, I almost forgot to give credit where credit's due, shame on me! Dean's line about tanned cow hide is from the TV Tropes page 'Hell-Bent for Leather'. A friend and I had a good giggle over that line. I felt that its glory just had to be shared with the world :D

_Approximately five months ago_

Sam’s loud groan was filled with the kind of torment that only truly long-suffering little brothers could summon up. “Are you _mooning over_ Cas? Oh god, you’re mooning, aren’t you? You’ve got that vacant look in your eyes. And I can practically see the drool.”

Dean jerked up, startled out of the pleasant reverie he had sunk into. He had been waiting for Sam for nearly half an hour at the stupid fancy cafe that his brother loved so much. (Sam claimed their salads were to die for; Dean personally would rather volunteer for an enema than take one bite of those overly-green, leafy monstrosities.) In such circumstances, who could blame Dean’s mind for wandering a little?

Sam, apparently. Dean’s brother had slid into the seat across from him. He was now glaring at Dean, bitchface firmly in place. “You do know that he’s a cop, right?”

“You’re a cop,” Dean informed him.

Sam gave him a _look_. “That’s different. I’m your brother. I’m not gonna arrest you, even though frankly, I really should. Now, Cas? He’s not exactly the greatest fan of the vigilante. He won’t even blink before throwing your ass into jail once he finds out you spend your nights wearing a mask and running around in tights.”

“They’re not tights,” Dean protested, “They’re _pants_. Made of genuine black leather.”

“Okay, so your _tights_ are made of real dead cow,” Sam said. “That makes everything so much better.”

Dean gave his brother a withering glare. “Your sarcasm is very much _not_ appreciated, Sam. I’ll have you know that there’s something about tanned cow hide that many people find cool and extremely sexy. Anyway, chill out. I can keep a secret. Besides, it’s just a casual dinner date. Not like we’re picking out the rings and floral arrangements already.”

“Yeah, your _tenth_ ‘casual dinner date’ in a row.” Sam sighed loudly before muttering in a tone of great aggravation, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re _insane?_ ”

Dean raised his hands, smirking. “Guilty as charged.”

Sam’s frown deepened, his lips a thin, grim line. “Dean, I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but Cas is my partner. He’s my _friend._ He deserves more than to be your… your _plaything_.”

Dean felt a stab of hurt at that. Sure, he had always known that Sam disapproved of what he spent his nights doing, but did his brother really think that little of him? So maybe when he’d started off trying to get to know Cas, his motivations hadn’t exactly been as pure as the driven snow, but that had changed. Boy had that changed.

It wasn’t like Dean actually _wanted_ to fall for the guy who was trying his damned best to throw Dean’s ass into jail. Every time Dean thought of Cas and those stupid blue eyes of his, he felt as though he was melting into a warm, happy puddle of goo but also simultaneously getting punched in the face.

“It’s nice to know what you really think of me, Sam,” Dean snapped. “Have you ever considered that maybe, I might actually _like Cas_? That maybe I go out with him because _I actually enjoy his company_? Or are vigilantes not allowed to have, heaven forbid, _feelings_?”

Sam’s gaze softened minutely. “But, Dean… you gotta know—this is a dangerous game you’re playing. Sooner or later, it’s gonna blow up in your face. Keeping a secret like this— it’s not easy. All it takes is one slip up and…”

“You think I don’t tell myself that every day?” Dean shot back, glaring furiously.

Sam sighed. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, okay?” Softly, he said, “Either of you.” He looked straight into Dean’s eyes, and the earnest worry in his gaze made Dean’s anger feel baseless and weak.

Dean’s lips quirked into a weak smile, a silent apology. “Your concern is appreciated, little brother, but I know what I’m doing, alright?”

Shaking his head wearily, Sam chuckled. “Sometimes I highly doubt that,” he muttered dryly, but his grin was fond. “Now, c’mon. Time to get you some salad. With a lifestyle like yours, you gotta start eating more healthily. I recommend this one—” Menu in hand, Sam launched into an excited explanation about something involving beetroots, carrots and wheatgrass which Dean tuned out after about three seconds.

Instead he thought about blue eyes, adorably furrowed brows, and lips that looked far more delectable than any salad ever could.

Yeah, Dean was pretty much a goner.

 

\---

 

_Present Day_

Castiel stood in front of Zachariah’s desk, feeling uncannily like he was back in high school again, being called into the principal’s office. There was a pinched look on the police chief’s face; he looked like he had been sucking on a lemon for the past hour or so.

“Castiel, I have been hearing some very worrying things about you and the vigilante,” Zachariah began. “There are certain rather… _disturbing_ rumors floating around,” he gave Castiel a sharp look, “ that you have been, in fact, treating Hunter more like a bosom buddy than the,” his voice acquired a sharp edge, “ _dangerous_ _criminal you should be arresting_.”

Castiel could feel Zachariah’s beady gaze on his skin like a laser sight from a high-powered sniper rifle; it made his flesh crawl. “Care to shed some light on this, Detective?”

Castiel cleared his throat nervously. “Chief Adler, I assure you—my team and I have been doing our utmost best to capture the vigilante. I was merely—following an alternate route of inquiry. I thought that perhaps, by understanding the vigilante’s history and motivations, we could better—”

“Who cares, Castiel?” Zachariah snapped, “A criminal is a criminal. Hunter’s reasons don’t matter. What matters is _you catching him_. The powers that be are not pleased with your lack of progress, Castiel. Not pleased at all.”

He narrowed his eyes at Castiel. “Please don’t tell me you’re actually starting to _sympathize_ with the vigilante, Detective? Don’t tell me you think that he deserves mercy now that he has turned over a new leaf? Just because Hunter’s stopped murdering people, that doesn’t mean he isn’t still a criminal. Stop playing around, Castiel, and do your _job_. I do hope you understand – the state is paying you to uphold justice. Not to question your orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Castiel said stiffly. “I completely understand.”

Zachariah’s gaze remained knife-sharp. “Do you? Really?” he said, one eyebrow raised, “I somehow doubt it.”

He folded his hands, gazing steadily at Castiel. “I’ll make this simple for you, Detective. By the end of this month, I _will_ have either one of these two things. The vigilante behind bars … _or your badge_.” He paused, smiling thinly. “I trust I have made myself sufficiently clear?”

“Crystal… sir,” said Castiel, his voice steady, even as a cold, sinking feeling spread throughout him, like his whole body had just been dunked into freezing water.

Zachariah threw him one last contemptuous glance. “Then get the hell out of my office.”

 

\---

 

Dean straightened up from his crouch. Bad guys were lying on the ground all around him, dreaming whatever happy little criminal dreams unconscious criminals dreamt. Smirking, Dean surveyed his good work. These crooks hadn’t even known what had hit them before Dean had laid half of them out on the ground.

But all thoughts of self-congratulation vanished from Dean’s mind the very next moment.

A dagger whistled through the space where his head had been a mere split-second ago. Spinning around quickly to retaliate, Dean blocked the next blow with his own dagger.

Abaddon smiled coldly at him; her lips were as blood red as her hair. They sprung apart, circling each other warily.

“Hunter,” Abaddon drawled, low and sultry, “I hear you’ve been tearing up the town looking for little old me. Well,” her smile was as sharp as the dagger she wielded, “ _Here I am_.”

“Abaddon,” Dean acknowledged with a smirk. “So you decided to spare me the trouble of hunting you down? That’s awfully considerate of you.”

“I had to see for myself what all the fuss about you was about,” Abaddon purred, “And I have to say I’m _impressed._ Why, Hunter… All that black leather? You give a girl all sorts of nasty ideas.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Dean said, deadpan, “But I’m already taken.”

“Sure I can’t tempt you away? I could use a man like you, Hunter.” There was a devilish glint in Abaddon’s eyes; the way she drawled the word ‘use’ could have been straight out of a porno. “A man with your unique talents could go far. We could do great things together. You and me, lover. We could change the world.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Dean, “I’m very flattered to hear my talents are so appreciated, but there’s this little problem— I don’t work with _evil criminal scum_ like you.”

Abaddon laughed, high and cold. “That’s not what I heard, Hunter.” There was something terribly knowing about the next smirk she threw him. “Used to be that you were making time with all sorts. Sorts like a certain… Alistair?”

Dean froze. Abaddon’s grin widened.

“As you can see, I’ve been doing a little sniffing around of my own. You’re not the only one who’s been asking questions. You’ll be surprised what you can find, when you dig deep enough.”

Dean felt a sinking feeling in his chest. No, it couldn’t be—

“Does your detective boyfriend know what you do at night, _Dean_?”

Dean felt all the air go out of him, almost as if he had been physically punched. He might have gasped a little, but in the daze of horror and shock his mind had gone into, he barely noticed.

Abaddon was smiling coldly, her eyes alight with triumph. Shit, shit, shit.

“Nice try,” Dean said quickly, and he forced himself to laugh. “You’ve got it wrong—”

Abaddon tutted. “Don’t try to lie to me, Dean. I know everything about you. Ex-army, a marine like your old man. Came back from Afghanistan with a bunch of shiny medals and a seriously messed up head. Also like your old man.” A snide smirk. “You couldn’t fit back in. Something was fundamentally broken in you. You were a wolf amongst sheep. So you joined up with Alistair and his crew, and boy, was that _fun_. But after a while, you just couldn’t take it anymore. You ran off and found yourself a nice, sweet lady and her adorable little boy. That didn’t end too well for you, did it?”

She smiled at Dean mockingly, but Dean refused to rise up to rise up to her bait. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

“You think you can blackmail me with this?” he said with more confidence than he really felt, “Nobody’s gonna believe you. If you know so much about me, then you know my brother’s a cop. You go to the police, he’ll make sure whatever ‘evidence’ you think you have never sees the light of day.” He sneered at her challengingly.

Abaddon grinned, like his defiance pleased her. Silkily, she drawled, tone musing, “You know, it’s just too bad Alistair got to your lady love and her kid first. I’d have loved to carve them up for you, all nice and pretty. I’d have made it slow, _special_. But it’s okay.” She paused, her smile sly and darkly knowing, “I still have your detective.”

Dean saw red.

“I’ll kill you,” he snarled. He stepped forward, dagger raised, “You touch him, you’re _dead_. No, I’ll make you _wish_ you were dead.”

Abaddon laughed happily. “You’re not untouchable anymore, Hunter. Now you have a weakness. Under the mask you’re just a man… and men? Men can be broken.”

Dean threw his dagger at her, aimed straight for her heart, but Abaddon sidestepped his attack easily, laughing.

“I’ll see you around, _Dean_ ,” she said, eyes glinting with wicked promise.

Dean drew another dagger, leaping forward with a snarl, but then there was a loud bang and a blinding flash of light. Dean’s vision whited out completely and he staggered, ears ringing. Flashbang, damn it.

Still he lunged forward blindly, trying to find Abaddon, driven only by the desperate thought that he could not let her escape to harm Cas. But his dagger whistled through thin air, and by the time his vision cleared, Abaddon was long gone.

“Fuck,” Dean breathed, and his curse was loud in the dead silence of the night.

 

\---

 

Dean was not freaking out.

Okay fine, that was a lie. He was freaking the fuck out.

As he paced around the room, a loud, animalistic snarl escaped his lips. “Goddammit!” he cursed as he slammed his fist down hard on the kitchen table, making the pile of unwashed dishes on it jump.

“Dean,” Sam said tiredly from where he was slumped on the couch, “You should just tell him.”

“Not this again. Can we _please_ not have this argument now, Sam?”

Dean couldn’t see Sam’s face from here, but from the tone of Sam’s voice, Dean could practically hear his eyes rolling. “I’ve been telling you from the start that you should just tell Cas the truth. Yeah, I get it, you couldn’t tell him at first ‘cause he’d just have slapped a pair of cuffs on you and carted you off to supermax. But Dean, don’t you see? Things are different now. He’s your _boyfriend_. And from what I can see, he actually seems to have grown to genuinely like Hunter.”

“Just because he didn’t take the chance to arrest me once or twice does not mean he likes Hunter. I’ve been lying to him for ages, Sam, he’s not gonna be happy.” Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand against his face wearily, ignoring Sam’s not so quiet mutter of, “And whose fault is that?”

“If I tell Cas the truth, he’ll probably just flip out and arrest me anyway.”

Sam gave him a pitying look. “Dean, if you, for even one moment, think that Cas would willingly throw you into jail, I have to tell you— you are _seriously_ deluded. Sure, he’ll probably be furious with you for quite some time, but you’re just gonna have to suck it up. Apologize profusely, go on your knees and beg for forgiveness. Make him one of your incredibly schmaltzy mix tapes, he secretly loves those. Bake him a pie. Knowing Cas, he’ll probably forgive you within a week.”

“That’s some incredibly _stupid_ advice, Sam,” Dean said huffily. “If I tell Cas, he’ll never speak to me again. And then how am I supposed to protect him?”

Sam let out an annoyed snort. The look on his face said, ‘Dean, you _absolute drama queen_.’

“In case you’ve somehow forgotten, Cas has a gun, and he knows how to use it. He doesn’t need you to protect him. He’s a policeman, not a delicate little orchid. Keeping this from him is only going to put him in more danger. He’s already involved in this whole mess, anyway. Tell me, Dean- is your secret identity really more important than your boyfriend’s life _?_ ”

Dean shook his head, furious beyond words. “You don’t understand, Sam,” he bit out angrily before sinking into sullen silence. Why couldn’t Sam just let this go? The moment Dean told Cas, everything would be over. Everything they had built between them would come crumbling down.

Cas would never look at him in the same way again, blue eyes warm and shining with love, lips curving into a gentle smile. Dean could almost see the hurt blooming in those eyes, the betrayed look on Cas’s face as he turned away from Dean. Dean saw it far too often in his nightmares- the ones that didn’t involve Cas, face bloodied and bruised, eyes sightless, Alistair laughing over his broken corpse.

If lying to Cas was the only way Dean could keep Cas’s love, Dean would gladly do it. He knew his time with Cas was running out. Like all good, precious things, it could never last. But all he wanted was to enjoy what little of it he still had left. Was that really too much to ask?

Suddenly, Sam said, “This is about Ben and Lisa, isn’t it? You’re afraid that if you tell Cas, history’s gonna repeat itself." His tone softened, "Dean, how many times do I have to tell you? It wasn’t your fault—”

“Don’t you dare bring Ben and Lisa into this,” Dean snarled, stomping over to the couch to glare murderously at Sam. “Anyway, I can keep Cas safe just fine without telling him anything. If you’re not gonna help me, just tell me and I’ll do it myself.”

Sam sighed. “Fine, be like that. We’ll do it your way. Happy now? But don’t say I didn’t warn you. And I would like to note for the record that I'm doing this because Cas is my friend, and unlike you, I care more about his safety than being a stubborn, uncompromising ass.”

“Whatever,” Dean muttered. “You can say ‘I told you so’ as many times as you want when Cas kicks my stubborn, uncompromising, lying ass to the curb. But for now, just keep your cakehole shut and do what I say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you: Dean, absolute king of good decision making. Truly, his wisdom knows no bounds. I mean, what could /possibly/ go wrong with this masterful plan of action?


	7. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lengthy absence, guys. Real life hasn't been kind, to say the least, and my lack of proper story planning has come back to bite me in the ass. I've realized the hard way that it's all well and good using story outlines like 'Dean visits Cas at police station n gives him quickie' or 'Cas's wacky sex dream' for the earlier chapters, but MAYBE it's not good to be quite so succinct when it comes to the final climatic chapters where I'll have to tie all the plot ends up. Oops.

Over the next few days, Castiel noticed a rather puzzling thing.

Dean was around practically _all the time_. He came to visit Castiel at the station with an almost neurotic frequency. Whether they were at home or out for meals, he stuck to Castiel like a second shadow.

It was surprisingly clingy behavior for Dean, who had always been, whilst affectionate, something of a self-proclaimed ‘lone wolf’. Dean had never minded that Castiel’s long hours at the station meant they often barely ever had time to see each other outside of dinner dates and the times when Dean spent the night at Castiel’s apartment. So it was really rather perplexing why Dean was now clinging to Castiel like he had somehow spontaneously transformed into the human version of a limpet.

Strangely enough, Sam too seemed to be in on the action. Whenever they were at work, Sam was never more than five feet away. It felt like the only time Castiel didn’t see a Winchester was when he closed his eyes or was in the bathroom.

It was an extremely baffling mystery, one that Castiel would have been compelled to solve any other day, but he had bigger things to worry about at the moment. Namely, Hunter.

The vigilante had pretty much vanished. There had not been a single sign of him over the course of the few nights after Castiel received his dreadful ultimatum from Zachariah.

Perhaps Hunter had heard about said ultimatum; after all, word of Castiel’s disgrace had spread through the ranks like wildfire. Nowadays the only people who didn’t know that Castiel was in deep shit with his boss probably lived on the moon.

So maybe the vigilante had wisely decided to take Castiel’s advice and retire. Good for him, if he had. Not so good for Castiel and his continuing employment prospects. Castiel’s stress levels were mounting with every single night that went by without a single glimpse of black leather.

He was chugging going on five cups of coffee a day just to stay awake. His eye bags were so large they were practically the size of tennis balls. The other day Balthazar had made a joke about him looking like an extra from The Walking Dead. (Castiel had not been best pleased when he overheard it. Balthazar was stuck on paperwork duty now.)

It was actually kind of a godsend that Dean was around so much. He was the model of a perfect boyfriend, quietly affectionate and endlessly supportive, preparing all of Castiel’s meals, giving him backrubs that made Castiel wonder if he had somehow died and gone straight to heaven. He didn’t even seem to mind that all Castiel did every single night after getting back from work was flop onto the bed and pass out almost instantly, dead to the world till his alarm went off at 6.00AM.

One night though, Castiel had woken up abruptly, and it hadn’t been because of the incessant blaring of his alarm. Groggy from sleep, Castiel just lay there for a while, his brain slowly coming back online. Then, the muffled sound of someone groaning finally registered. Fumbling around, Castiel managed to flick on the bedside lamp.

The soft glow of the lamp illuminated a troubling scene— Dean twitching in his sleep, brows furrowed and face drawn. He was murmuring something, too slurred to be intelligible, but Castiel caught his name. Dean’s fists clenched; as Castiel watched, his face twisted in fear and he let out a broken noise- almost a whimper- that went straight to Castiel’s heart.

Castiel leaned over to brush the short strands of hair that had fallen over Dean’s sweat-soaked brow, overcome by a sudden surge of guilt and concern. He had been so focused on his own misery and stress that he hadn’t even noticed the way Dean looked—there was a greyish pallor to his skin that made him look as though he had aged decades, his dark eye circles rivalled even Castiel’s own, and he looked utterly exhausted, like he hadn’t slept for days. What exactly had happened to him?

Castiel knew that it was not uncommon for Dean to have nightmares. It was one of the things Dean didn’t like to talk about, like the period of his life right after he had been discharged from the army. There was a reason why Dean didn’t like being touched sometimes, why he occasionally jumped at sudden noises and reacted violently when startled.

Castiel didn’t pry into Dean’s troubled past; if Dean wanted him to know, he would tell Castiel himself someday.

He pressed a gentle kiss to Dean’s brow. “It’s alright, Dean,” he whispered, “You’re safe now. It’s okay.”

Dean seemed to calm at the sound of Castiel’s voice, the furrow in his brows smoothing out, his labored breathing becoming even. He let out an adorable little snort as he turned his face into his pillow, nuzzling into it. It brought a smile to Castiel’s face.

A feeling of fiercely protective affection came surging up in him. As Castiel watched Dean quietly, he made a silent vow to himself. He was going to sort out this whole mess with the vigilante. After that, he would finally be able to give Dean the time and attention he deserved. With Hunter behind bars, Castiel would be able to devote himself not just to his job, but to the man he loved.

It didn’t matter what Castiel’s personal feelings about Hunter were. The cold, creeping sense of guilt in him at the thought of arresting Hunter—that was of no consequence. Hunter had sealed his fate a long time ago. Castiel had no choice but to do what had to be done. Zachariah had made that clear enough.

Still, something niggled at him. Castiel couldn’t forget how Hunter had sounded, his voice layered with sorrow and guilt, the undeniable truth of his grief as he spoke about his past— about the woman and child he loved…

And suddenly, it hit Castiel in a searing flash of brilliance.

Over the years, he had learned a single, important universal truth about detective work. Every case could be cracked. You just had to find that one pivotal clue. And now, at long last, Castiel had found it.

He just had to search the archives, narrow down the cases which fit the profile. Once he had the names of Alistair’s victims, Hunter’s true identity would surely follow. Elation bubbled up in him. This could be his breakthrough, finally.

He had to get to the station immediately. This wasn’t something that could wait till morning. Careful not to wake Dean up, Castiel quickly changed into his suit, grabbed his trench coat and quietly left the house.

 

\---

 

The police station was dark and deserted around him. It was nearly three in the morning on a weekend; even the most dedicated of Castiel’s colleagues were at home, fast asleep.

Castiel let himself into his office, making a beeline for the computer. For a long while, the only sounds in the dark room were the clacking of keys as Castiel worked feverishly. He was onto something, he just knew it.

But when Castiel found the Braeden case, any triumph he felt was rapidly overtaken by horror.

Over the years, Castiel had witnessed the depths that humanity could sink to- murder, rape, torture, you name it, he had seen it. But nothing could have prepared him for this. Castiel felt sick just looking at the photos of the crime scene. It was cases like this that reminded him that sometimes the true monsters were human.

Swallowing his dread, Castiel flipped open the report. Staring starkly out at him from the white pages were two names in neat black font, startlingly incongruous. Castiel looked at them for a long time, an inexplicable sense of sadness overtaking him.

“Lisa and Ben Braeden,” he muttered to himself. “Lisa and Ben…”

Something about those names was horribly familiar. He could almost feel the answer, dancing just out of his reach. He was teetering on the cusp of something huge…

The glass of his office window shattered.

Castiel instinctively ducked into a crouch, shielding himself under his table. Something metallic clattered to a halt near his feet.

Castiel was already up, gun drawn, but smoke had filled the room. Castiel choked, trying to hold his breath. The world was tilting alarmingly around him. He staggered, coughing, towards the door. The floor was falling out from beneath his feet. Dimly, he heard a clatter as his gun slipped out from his numb fingers—

 

When Castiel jerked back into consciousness, it was to the cold press of metal against his skin. His eyes flew open immediately.

A red-headed woman was smiling at him, face mere inches away from his. She was holding his chin up in her left hand, her gaze assessing. In her other hand, she had a small dagger pressed against his cheek. Her lips were a startling, intense blood-red.

As she noticed his eyes on her, her grin widened.

 _Abaddon_.

Castiel felt a sinking feeling of dread settle in his stomach.

Abaddon laughed at the expression of horror on his face, lifting the knife away from his cheek. Castiel could not help the way his eyes lingered on the dagger as she twirled it around in her fingers.

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Detective Milton. I’ve heard great things. You know, I thought you’d be harder to take down. But all it took was a little sleeping gas. So much for your reputation.” She laughed, high and mocking.

With a heavy heart, Castiel took stock of his situation. His arms and legs were bound, he was tied to a chair, and his gun was gone. And because that just didn’t suck enough already, there were figures milling around in the background, all of them armed with what were unmistakably military grade assault rifles. Now this was just _peachy_.

He surreptitiously tried to scope out his surroundings. A quick scan revealed that he was in some kind of abandoned building, surrounded by a small army of Abaddon’s goons and the woman herself. There was no clear exit in sight except for the picture windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Though the windows were grimy with dust, Castiel could still tell from the faint lights outside that they were somewhere high up, way high up. Yeah, that was one exit route that Castiel would not soon be taking.

“Why am I here?” Castiel demanded.

“Hunter, of course,” Abaddon said, as if it was obvious. She flashed him a careless smirk.

It took longer than Castiel cared to admit for him to reach the obvious conclusion.

“You kidnapped me… to draw out Hunter?” Castiel said, incredulous. “We’re _enemies_ , Abaddon. I’m trying to _put him in jail_. Why the hell do you think he even cares what happens to me?”

“Oh my,” said Abaddon, “He hasn’t told you yet, has he?” She laughed happily as Castiel stared at her in bewilderment. “Why, this is so terribly _precious_.”

Maybe it was the chemicals still in his system, but Castiel felt like his thoughts were moving glacially slow. Nothing about this was making any kind of sense at all. What exactly was it that Hunter was supposed to have told him?

Abaddon continued, tone musing, still grinning at Castiel. “Should I do the honors? I would love to see the look on your face. Oh, that sweet betrayal...” Abaddon sighed in pleasure, a small smirk playing on her lips. Then she paused, putting one finger to her lips before leaning in to smile at Castiel, sickly sweet. Her eyes were bright with malicious glee.

“But no, I think not. I have an even better idea. I’ll kill Hunter in front of you, nice and slow. Then I’ll let you take his mask off. Just think about it— all your vigilante problems solved. A new gold star to add to your flawless record. You’d like that, won’t you, Detective?”

Castiel just stared back at her, stone-faced. Abaddon was obviously playing some kind of twisted game here. Castiel didn’t know what she was trying to do, and he didn’t really care. He was about to tell her to go screw herself, but before he could get a word out, the lights went out and they were plunged into darkness.

A pained yell rang out, cut off halfway as there was a loud, sickening crack. The next few moments were filled with screams and the harsh stutter of gunfire. In the flashes of light from the gunfire, Castiel caught glimpses of Hunter, a pistol and dagger in each hand, as he weaved his way through the ranks of Abaddon’s goons, taking them down with deadly efficiency even as they struggled to pin down his location. Abaddon was screaming in mindless rage, something about fools and incompetency. Castiel couldn’t care less about what she was saying. All he cared about was the fact that she now had her back to him.

With one gentle rock forward, Castiel managed to flip himself onto his feet. He took one deep breath. Then he struck.

The steel chair that he was tied to smashed into Abaddon with a satisfying crash. Castiel could almost swear he heard ribs breaking under the force of the blow as Abaddon was slammed against the wall. Even better, the impact had dented the chair enough that Castiel was able to struggle free from his bonds.

He dropped to his knees in a mad scramble to find the dagger that had clattered to the floor. After what seemed like an eternity, his fingers closed on cold steel, and Castiel’s heart surged with hope. He spun around, expecting to find Abaddon still groaning on the ground.

Instead, he was met with the barrel of a gun and Abaddon’s pained but triumphant smile.

“Game over, Detective,” she said, and she pulled the trigger.

The next few seconds were a blur.

Dimly, he heard someone screaming his name.

Then Hunter came crashing into him and Castiel was slammed backwards. There was a loud shattering of glass as they smashed straight through the window and went plummeting through the air.

Castiel only had a few moments to think that this was an incredibly shitty way to die and about how sorry he was that he didn’t at least get to say goodbye to Dean, before he heard the sound of Hunter’s grappling hook firing. There was a sudden, forceful jerk and their downward plummet came to an abrupt halt. Hunter let out a loud grunt of pain. They hung in the air for a few seconds, Hunter’s harsh pants of agony loud in Castiel’s ears. Then the vigilante’s strength gave out. He released the cable and they fell the remaining few feet through the air, crashing to the ground in an ungainly tangle of limbs.

Castiel lay there, winded. Hunter was lying on top of him, groaning weakly. Despite this uncomfortable position, Castiel could do nothing but stare at the night sky in a shocked daze. But he snapped out of it when he felt something warm and sticky seeping through his clothes. When he reached out to touch it, his fingers came away red.

With a pained groan, Hunter pushed himself off from Castiel, falling heavily onto the ground, where he lay on his back, panting heavily.

Castiel sat up, staring numbly at the blood on his fingers.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “You got shot.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Hunter bit out between harsh pants. He tried to push himself to his feet, but he staggered, swaying wildly. Castiel only just caught him in time before the vigilante could fall face-first into the ground. Hunter sagged into his arms, worryingly limp.

Castiel hand was halfway towards his pockets before he realized that Abaddon had taken away his phone. “You don’t happen to keep a phone on that utility belt of yours, do you?” he asked Hunter.

Hunter let out a huff of humorless laughter. “What? Thinking of calling your cop buddies to come arrest me?”

“No, you idiot. An ambulance. Unless you’d prefer that I just leave you here to bleed out.”

Hunter gave him a look that quite adequately conveyed his exasperation at Castiel’s stupidity even through the mask. “You think I’m gonna go to a hospital like _this_?”

“So you’d rather _bleed to death_?”

“It’s just a flesh wound. I’ve had worse,” Hunter said, but then he winced and let out a grunt of pain that totally belied his previous words. “Besides, you think Abaddon’s just gonna let us go like that? You gotta get out of here. She’s probably already got her minions searching for us. Just go. I can take care of myself.”

Castiel stared at him incredulously. “You can barely walk.”

Hunter grimaced. “Just get out here, Detective. It isn’t safe.” When Castiel still did not move, he glared at Castiel pointedly. “Beat it already.”

Castiel just gave him a steely look in return. “No. I’m not going anywhere until you come with me.”

Hunter huffed in frustration. “Just go without me. I’ll only slow you down.” Glaring, he pushed himself away from Castiel, but only succeeded in staggering two steps before nearly collapsing again. Castiel caught him, but Hunter only just tried to push him off again. “For god’s sake, just go, will you?”

Castiel couldn’t believe him. “You really do have a death wish, don’t you? I’m not leaving you behind. You saved my life. I owe you this much, at least.”

He grabbed Hunter before the vigilante could try to do anything colossally stupid again, like try to walk off … or throw himself in front of a bullet meant for the man who should be his worst enemy. “I’m not going anywhere unless you’re coming with me. So if you want to sit around here till Abaddon and her lackeys show up, go ahead. Be my guest.”

In a steely tone that brooked no disobedience, Castiel said, “Now, shall we get going?”

Hunter let out a loud, exasperated sigh, but did not try to push him away again. In a tone of great reluctance, he muttered, “Oh, very well. You win, Detective.” He threw Castiel a hard-to-decipher look. “I hope you don’t have a very good sense of smell.”

 

And that was how Castiel found himself holding a flashlight and trudging through the sewers, a wanted criminal hanging off his arm, enjoying the delightful sights and wondrous smells that only Metro City’s sewage system could produce. This was definitely something his younger self had never envisaged when imagining his future illustrious police career as MCPD’s greatest detective.

“So this is how you get around when you’re not running around on rooftops? I can see why you prefer the roofs. This is both, literally and figuratively, _shit_.”

Hunter burst out into surprised laughter, but then probably thought better of it a moment later as he let out a grunt of pain. Castiel looked at him worriedly, but Hunter waved him off and motioned for him to carry on.

They continued on in silence for a while, the only sounds the quiet splash of their footsteps and Hunter’s labored breathing.

Abruptly, Castiel found himself speaking again. For some reason, he felt compelled to say, “My boss gave me an ultimatum- bring you in or lose my badge. I was ready to do it, you know.”

Hunter turned sharply to look at Castiel.

“So why haven’t you?” he asked, tone dry. There was a sardonic quirk to his lips as he said, “As you can see, I’m not exactly in any kind of state to resist arrest right now.”

Castiel huffed. “You threw yourself into the path of a bullet to save my life. Arresting you would be rather poor repayment, wouldn’t it?” He shook his head, frowning. “I don’t get it. Why did you come to rescue me? You could have just left me there to rot. If you had just stood back and let Abaddon kill me back there, you’d have saved yourself a whole lot of trouble.”

Hunter grin was bright, albeit somewhat strained from the obvious pain he was in. His tone was light as he said, “Nah, life would be too boring without you around, Detective. Who would be there to keep me on my toes? Chase me around, and criticize all my sartorial choices? It just wouldn’t be the same.”

Castiel couldn’t help but let out an amused huff at that. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

There was a small, fond smile playing on Hunter’s lips. “Yeah, I think you might have mentioned that before.”

Castiel threw him a sidelong glance. Abruptly, he was struck by an unsettling sense of déjà vu. There was _something_ about that smile. And what Abaddon had said. The way she talked about Hunter. Like she knew that Hunter would come for him, like there was some special connection between the two of them.

And there was the way Hunter had just leapt in front of Castiel when Abaddon had levelled that gun at him. The way he had screamed Castiel’s name…

Castiel froze, coming to a complete standstill. His mind was racing. He barely heard Hunter say, “Hey, Detective. Why the sudden pit stop? I thought we were in a hurry—”

“You called me Cas,” Castiel said, hearing the words come out of his mouth as if from very far away.

“Uh, yeah?” Hunter said. His smirk was flippant, “Last I checked, that was a shortened version of your name,” but there was something almost imperceptibly strained about his too-bright grin.

Realization hit Castiel with the force of an oncoming tidal wave. Suddenly, all the pieces had fallen into place, and with a horrible certainty, Castiel _knew_.

“Dean?” he said, and the grin froze on Hunter’s face.

The ensuing silence was damning.

Castiel felt it like a punch to the gut. There were so many emotions churning within him that he felt like his chest was bursting—anger, grief, shame, and above it all, an overwhelming sense of betrayal.

Castiel reached out to tear off the mask, but Dean grabbed his hand. “Please, Cas,” he said softly, “Not now.”

“You lied to me,” Castiel found himself saying, “Right to my face. From the very first day we met, you were lying to me.” In one brusque, angry motion, he yanked his hand free of Dean’s grasp.

“Cas, please—”

Dean reached out to touch Castiel, but Castiel shoved him away roughly. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped, and Dean recoiled, staggering. His back hit the wall, and he stayed there, partially crouched down and leaning heavily against the wall, almost as though he was trying to curl into himself. Even with the mask and cowl, Castiel could see that his eyes were filled with unmistakable hurt.

How dare he look at Castiel like that? He was the one who had been lying to Castiel for the entirety of their relationship. Oh, Dean had probably had a good laugh at him. Poor lonely Detective Castiel Milton. Estranged from his family, disliked by his colleagues, his partner Sam his one and only friend. What a poor, miserable, lonely wretch. What an easy target he must have seemed.

How amusing it must have been for Dean, watching Castiel make a fool of himself. Falling for the criminal he was supposed to catch. How Dean must have laughed, every time he pulled yet another fast one over Castiel while wearing that fucking mask.

All the late nights out? Drinking with the guys. The bruises and injuries? MMA training. Friendly roughhousing that got a little too heated. The mysterious, troubled past? Oh, just _Ben_ and _Lisa_ , the family Dean had lost and never liked to talk about. Oh god. How could Castiel have been so blind? So _stupid_? All the signs had been there for him to see.

But he just hadn’t wanted to see them, had he? There it was, the human capacity for self-deception.

Castiel had ignored all the warning signs, because he wanted so much to believe in _Dean_. In everything they had. What a fucking fool he had been.

“Was any of it ever true? Tell me—” His voice cracked shamefully, and Castiel swallowed hard, choking back the sob he could feel trying to burst out from his traitorous throat, “Everything you said you felt for me- was any of it actually true? Was it all just a game to you?" Castiel was practically yelling now, his voice echoing around the sewers, but he didn't care about how much noise he was making, "Did you ever really love me? Or was that a lie too?”

Deep down inside, he knew the answer. But in that moment, Castiel was filled with a vicious, perverse need to make Dean hurt, just as much as he had hurt Castiel.

The agony in Dean’s voice was loud and clear, “Cas, it was true, I- I really do…” He trailed off, voice strangled. He drew a sharp breath before continuing quietly, “But I guess you can’t trust a word I say now, can you? I don’t blame you. I deserve it.”

The naked sorrow in his voice stabbed at Castiel like a cold knife sliding into his heart. Under the mask, Dean’s face was drawn with pain, and abruptly, Castiel was reminded of the blood staining his clothes. Dean’s blood. From when Dean had been shot trying to _save Castiel’s life_.

Dean sighed. “Just- just can we not fight now? You can scream at me, break up with me, punch me silly, I don’t care, just… let’s get out of this first, alright?” He looked up at Castiel, eyes large and pleading, “When everything’s over, you can take me in yourself. I’ll come willingly. I won’t put up a fight.”

Dean was barely upright, still in the same half-crouched position against the wall where he had ended up after Castiel had so roughly pushed him away. He was clutching his side where his bullet wound was, though he was obviously trying to be subtle about it.

Suddenly, it was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over Castiel. Dean was in obvious pain. All this time Castiel had been yelling at him, he was wounded, bleeding out, fighting just to stand.

Castiel silently offered a hand to Dean.

Dean looked up at him in surprise. Then, his eyes lit up and his lips curved into a small, involuntary smile. As he took Castiel’s hand, allowing Castiel to haul him to his feet, Castiel tried to ignore how pathetically happy this small gesture had obviously made Dean. Yet try as he might to hold onto his anger, he could feel it slowly slipping away.

“You’re an asshole, a criminal, and a giant fucking liar, Dean Winchester,” he informed Dean as he slung the other man’s arm over his shoulder. “But I’m not going to let you bleed to death. Let’s get going.”


	8. If The High Was Worth The Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo this was gonna be part of a longer chapter but I decided to split it because I’m wishy washy like that XD Now u get part one early so that’s a good thing I guess??
> 
> If you’re a stickler for medical realism, I gotta warn you- this chapter will make your eyes roll SO HARD. I subscribe to the Winchester school of medicine, i.e. there’s nothing that a bit of alcohol, home first aid, manly wincing, and handwaving can’t cure. If there’s nothing else I’ve learned from the show, it’s that the magical healing properties of whiskey should never be underestimated.

By the time they reached Dean’s supposed ‘safe house’, Castiel’s anger had simmered down to a more manageable level. Now, instead of wanting to punch Dean every five or so seconds, Castiel had reached the eminently reasonable stage of wanting to punch Dean only every five or so minutes. (If Dean hadn’t been so injured, Castiel would probably have given in to the temptation and decked him a long time ago.)

They stumbled into a small, dank apartment that smelled faintly of pee and cigarette smoke. The place was bare but for a lone bed, a cupboard, and an ancient television that looked as though it had been around since the eighties.

“Cupboard,” croaked Dean, waving a hand weakly at said cupboard, “First aid stuff is in there. Bandages and shit.” He let out a low groan before sagging heavily into Castiel’s arms. Even those few words seemed to have thoroughly exhausted him. The pallor of his face was rather alarming.

Castiel looked around for a place to lay Dean down. He eyed the bed with distaste for a moment. The mattress looked as though someone had thrown up on it several times, and he could see springs poking out in more than a few places. However, it was better than the floor at least.

Gingerly, he steered Dean towards the bed, allowing Dean to slide down onto it with a groan. On the bright side, at least they didn’t have to care about all the blood getting onto the sheets; that bed was a lost cause already. Dean could probably burn it after this. No big loss.

Castiel opened the cupboard doors and found himself staring at a veritable armory. There were rows upon rows of rifles, shotguns, pistols, knives… Hell, there was even a freaking _grenade launcher_. And—

“Nun-chucks? Seriously?” Castiel muttered under his breath.

Dean stirred from where he had been lying limply on the bed. “Nun-chucks are cool. Don’t diss the nun-chucks.”

Castiel shook his head, a familiar fond exasperation rising in him. He could not help but be reluctantly impressed by Dean’s weapon stash. Those were some quality (albeit extremely illegal) firearms.

“Where’s your first aid stuff? I don’t see it.”

“Uh. Try below the flamethrower. Should all be in a big green duffel.”

After some rooting around, Castiel finally found the duffel bag in question. It was surprisingly heavy.

By the time he turned back to look at Dean, Dean was sitting bare-chested on the bed, his bloodied top and gloves lying beside him. If Castiel hadn’t already known with iron-clad certainty that Dean was the vigilante, the familiar tattoo on his chest would have been confirmation enough.

How many times had Castiel gently traced the lines of that star, surrounded by a circle of flames, as they lay together on the bed? The sight of that tattoo, so closely associated with all the small, intimate memories of Dean that Castiel cherished, sent a pang of bittersweet longing and anger through Castiel, but he tried his best to tamp down on it. He had to keep his cool. At least until they were out of danger and Abaddon was caught.

 _Be professional_ , he told himself. _Be Detective Milton, not Castiel. And definitely not Cas. Treat the man on that bed not as your traitorous, lying boyfriend, but as an asset that you unfortunately have to work together with until this whole mess is over._

Yes. Professionalism. Professionalism was the key.

For some strange reason, Dean still had his mask on. Castiel had the uncharitable thought that it made him look extremely ridiculous, like some black leather BDSM-themed circus clown. Why Dean still persisted in wearing the mask when Castiel already knew everything was a mystery. At least he had already switched the voice modulator off so he no longer sounded like he ate rocks for breakfast.

With an angry huff, Castiel sat down on the bed next to Dean and handed him the duffle bag, which Dean took with a quiet muttered, “Thanks.”

The very first thing he pulled out was a bottle of whiskey.

Castiel stared at Dean incredulously. “Are you kidding me?”

Dean raised the bottle and flashed Castiel a crooked grin. “Best painkiller known to man.” He started chugging the whiskey as if it were water. In a few gulps, nearly half the bottle was gone.

Castiel watched in exasperated disbelief as Dean set the bottle aside, fishing out a pair of tweezers and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Unscrewing the bottle of disinfectant, he poured a generous portion of it onto the tweezers and then onto his wound. He winced, gritting his teeth at the pain, but the only sound of discomfort he made was the hiss that escaped from between his clenched teeth. This was all done in a quick, practiced manner that told Castiel that Dean must have done this for himself many times before.

However, it was when Dean moved on to extracting the bullet from himself that things started going awry.

Grimacing, he tried to twist himself into a position where he could get at his wound, but it was obvious that he was having trouble. When he shakily attempted to lower the tweezers to his wound, he only ended up hissing in pain, nearly dropping the tweezers in the process. And yet, he didn’t ask for Castiel’s help. He just gritted his teeth and tried again.

Castiel watched in dismay as Dean fumbled about pathetically. It was _painful_ to watch.

He sighed. “Let me do it.”

“No, it’s okay,” Dean bit out. The tweezers were trembling so violently it was a wonder Dean hadn’t stabbed himself with them yet. “I can do this myself.”

This was so patently false that Castiel was overcome by the urge to roll his eyes. “Dean—”

“No, Cas. I’ve got this.”

The sheer pigheadedness and unwillingness to accept help was typical Dean through and through. Castiel bit down on an exasperated sigh.

Painstakingly slow, Dean once again attempted to lower the tweezers to his wound, and by then, Castiel had had _enough._

“Oh, for god’s sake, you stubborn idiot—” He grabbed the tweezers from Dean. Ignoring Dean’s protests, he shoved Dean down into a lying position so that he could have better access to the wound. “Lie still.”

Thankfully, the bullet was pretty easy to locate. The Kevlar in Dean’s ridiculous outfit had probably stopped it from going too far in. When Castiel finally dug the bullet out, Dean let out a long hiss of agony before sinking back onto the mattress with a loud groan of relief.

“What the hell were you thinking, Dean, jumping in front of a bullet like that?” Castiel said in a low, angry mutter as he worked on stitching the wound up.

He could hear the glare in Dean’s voice as he retorted, “That I was wearing Kevlar, and you weren’t?”

“Fat lot of good that did you, getting shot at point blank range,” Castiel snapped. “You could have _died_ , Dean.”

The words hung in the air for a very long time before Dean said quietly, almost inaudibly, “Well. Better me than you.”

Castiel stilled, gazing at Dean silently, his frown deepening. How could Dean think so little of himself? Despite his earlier resolution to remain strictly professional, Castiel could feel the emotions welling up in him- a flare of hot anger at Dean and his stupidity, but also fiercely protective concern.

“Don’t say that,” he bit out roughly, “Don’t you dare say that.”

His next few stitches with done with perhaps a little more force than strictly necessary, making Dean wince and let out a protest of, “Oww, what was that for? Ease up on the abuse there, Florence Nightingale.”

“Maybe if my patient wasn’t such a _colossal assbutt_ , I would have a better bedside manner,” Castiel growled. However, when he took out the bandages to dress Dean’s wound, he was gentler. Smoothing the bandages over Dean’s skin, suddenly it hit him—he had never actually thanked Dean for saving his life.

“Thanks for saving me,” Castiel said quietly. “I realized- I never actually said it. So yes. Thank you,” he finally finished, stilted and awkwardly formal. He looked up from the bandages to meet Dean’s gaze.

Dean was looking straight at him, his green eyes sad. There was something strangely bittersweet about the small smile on his face as he said, “You don’t ever need to thank me, Cas. I want you to know that.”

Castiel swallowed hard. Suddenly, his face felt warm and he became intensely conscious of the way his fingers were pressed against Dean’s chest. He drew his hand away like he had been stung.

He busied himself with putting away the unused bandages, trying to focus on them instead of on Dean and the feelings that had come surging up in his chest at Dean’s words.

Dean had deceived him for months, Castiel reminded himself. He had committed an absolutely monstrous betrayal of Castiel’s trust. He was a no good, lying bastard who didn’t deserve a shred of forgiveness. Still, the anger that rose up in Castiel wasn’t quite enough to silence the small, insistent voice that said— _but he loves you. And you love him. Isn’t that the most important thing?_

For a while, there was nothing but silence as Castiel fiddled distractedly with the bandages and tape.

Then suddenly, a thought occurred to him. “Where’s Sam?” He turned to look at Dean, eyes narrowed. “He knows about all of this, doesn’t he? That was why he was following me around all the time the past few days. Why isn’t he here too?”

Dean laughed, a little nervously. “Uh, yeah. About that. Sam’s a little occupied at the moment.”

“Occupied?” Castiel raised an eyebrow. What could be more important than saving his best friend’s life? Not that Sam was very much deserving of Castiel’s friendship right now. He was going to be on Castiel’s shit list for eternity for conveniently forgetting to mention the small detail that his brother was _the very same criminal they had been chasing for months._

Yes, Castiel wasn’t very happy with Sam at the moment, to say the least.

“You… kinda weren’t the only person Abaddon kidnapped.”

“ _What_?” Castiel burst out, horrified.

“She managed to nab the mayor and a bunch of other bigwigs from city hall. Everyone's going nuts. Especially the cops. That’s how we realized you were missing, actually. Sam got called in to the station along with your whole team, and you didn’t show up. And we all know that nothing short of permanent incapacitation would stop you from turning up at work, so…”

Castiel shot Dean a dirty look. He didn’t usually mind Dean’s jibes about his workaholic habits, but now was really, _really_ not the time.

“And you didn’t think to mention this until now?” he said accusingly.

Dean glared back at him. “I had bigger things on my mind! Like,  I dunno— _escaping from Abaddon_?”

Castiel let out a growl of inarticulate frustration. “Bigger things? Bigger things than the city council being held hostage? Dean, what were you even _thinking?_ You should have gone to rescue them first. Isn’t that the whole point of you putting on that ridiculous costume? To save this city?”

“I’m _sorry_ ,” said Dean, not at all apologetically, “So I should just have left you with Abaddon? Because that would have worked out so well for you, obviously.”

Castiel glared daggers at him. “How did you even find me anyway?”

Dean looked very reluctant to answer. Finally, he admitted, “I… might have put a GPS tracker on your left shoe.”

It was probably very telling of how much Castiel had become used to Hunter’s creepy stalker antics that he was no longer even surprised. He gave Dean a scathing glare.

“Your level of respect for my privacy is frankly, _stunning_.”

“It saved your life, didn’t it?” Dean muttered, a touch sulkily.

Castiel let out an exasperated sigh. “So do you have any idea what’s happening now? Have the hostages been rescued yet?”

“Gimme a moment.” Dean tapped his earpiece.

“Hey Sam,” he said, “Yeah, he’s safe and with me now.”

He listened for a while before side-eyeing Castiel somewhat nervously. “Uh, yeah. About that… he found out. He’s not very happy.”

Understatement of the year. Castiel glared at Dean, lips thin. “I’m right here, you know,” he said icily and Dean visibly wilted under the force of his stony gaze.

“Uh, hold on a sec—” Dean dug around in a pouch on his utility belt before fishing out another earpiece, identical to the one he was wearing. “Here.” He fiddled with it before passing it to Castiel. “Put this on.”

Frowning, Castiel gingerly wriggled the fancy-looking gadget into place on his ear. “Sam?”

“Hey Cas,” came Sam’s rather nervous reply. Undoubtedly he could already smell the shitstorm that was brewing. “So Dean says you know about the whole, uh, Hunter thing?”

“ _Indeed_ ,” was all Castiel said, in the same tone that a crazy axe-murderer would use while smiling and slowly, ever so _slowly_ sharpening the murder weapon.

Castiel could practically hear Sam’s gulp.

Dean hastily came to his brother’s rescue. “Uhh, right. _Moving on_. Any news on the hostages?”

“Not a peep,” said Sam, “Zachariah’s practically frothing at the mouth. He’s got us combing every inch of East Side. But so far we’ve got squat. Cas…” Sam hesitated. “He’s pretty pissed at you, by the way. He said, and I quote, ‘the next time I see Milton’s lazy, irresponsible ass, heads are going to roll’. It’s pretty hard to tell who he’s madder with actually, you or Abaddon—”

There was a sharp intake of breath before Sam hissed, “Shit. Speak of the devil. Zachariah’s here. Sorry, gotta go.”

And with that, the line went dead.

“Wonderful,” said Castiel. “Knowing Zachariah, being kidnapped by a crazed criminal would not be an adequate excuse for not showing up to work.”

He let out a loud groan of frustration. “And we don’t even know how to find the hostages. Or Abaddon, for that matter.”

“Actually…” Dean began, “I do have an idea.” He hesitated for a beat. “You might not like it very much though. Hell, I don’t even like it very much myself. But it’s the only option we’ve got, as far as I can see. I gotta warn you— it’s probably gonna be pretty damn illegal.”

“Color me surprised,” Castiel said, deadpan.

But then he sighed. “Well, I guess it’s not like I haven’t done my fair share of aiding and abetting already, thanks to you. Lawbreaking is pretty much par for the course whenever you’re around. Go ahead. Hit me with it.”

As expected, Dean’s plan was pretty damn illegal. And needless to say, Castiel did not like it very much at all.

However, that didn’t stop him from going along with it anyway.


End file.
